


The Year of Living Outrageously

by Ari_Alleyn



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 58,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ari_Alleyn/pseuds/Ari_Alleyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack suffers a serious injury in the line of duty, both he and Phryne are forced to face the fact that love is an adventure full of trials, hardships, and unglamorous moments, and that every great adventure comes with a few mandatory sacrifices.<br/>Set six months after the end of Series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I know that I shouldn't get started on a brand new MFMM story while I'm actively smack in the middle of finishing another one, but I can't help myself. This morning I was privileged enough to meet some really remarkable MFMM fans from my local area and I was incredibly inspired by some of the things they had to say and some of the adventures they'd been on! I haven't been able to sit still all day for wanting to write this, and, as I always do, I gave in to my literary demons, and here we are.

Note: This story does NOT fall into the same timeline as any of my other stories. It is a standalone, for the moment.

Also, my computer seems to be working REALLY poorly today, so please bear with me. Thank you advance for your patience.

* * *

 

**The Year of Living Outrageously**

By Ari Moriarty

_Most men who have really lived have had, in some share, their great adventure._

-James J. Hill

**PART ONE**

* * *

 

**Prologue**

"Come after me," she'd murmured romantically before jumping back into her plane and taking off across the ocean on that insane, ill-advised journey of mercy. Jack had known it when he'd kissed her and when he'd felt (and been sure that she'd felt) the fireworks going off behind his eyes even long after their lips had broken contact. He'd known then that that she'd be coming back for him. He'd been so sure of it, and that certainty had been a warmth that held him through the ugliest coldest cases of the Melbourne winter and the longest, darkest nights of eating out alone at a table at Stranos with romantic Italian music playing perversely in the background and Concetta Fabrizzi still studiously, politely avoiding his gaze.

Six months later, however, when February had already firmly set in and Phryne Fisher still hadn't come back, Jack could feel the doubt coming creeping steadily back.

 _Maybe she meant it after all,_ he thought.  _Maybe she really was expecting me to come tearing off after her, to profess my love and to try and drag her back with the strength of my affections. Maybe that would have been exactly the kind of breathlessly exciting overture that would have appealed to her sense of the romantic._

That, of course, would have been ridiculous. The case reports kept piling up on Jack's desk; more work every day, busier by the moment, and he didn't have a staff of alarmingly competent Mr. Butlers and slightly unsavory cabbies to run the station for him if he'd decided it was time to get away for a few days. Jack's life didn't run on whims and dreams the way that Phryne's always had, and it would have been just as impossible for him to chase her across continents than it would probably have been for her to stay pinned down when adventure called. It was absolutely out of the question.

The days wore on, however, and as Jack sat alone in the station that afternoon with a heap of papers on his desk, waiting for the phone to ring, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, she really wasn't ever coming back.

Jack had a deck of playing cards in the top drawer of his desk, and, after checking quickly to make sure that no one else was paying him any attention, he took it out and shuffled it awkwardly a few times before fanning it out on the desk.

Selecting a card from the middle of the fan, Jack glanced at it and discovered that it was the eight of clubs. He then carefully shuffled it back into the deck, frowned to himself for a moment, and then began muttering under his breath as he began to deal the cards out again, one on top of another.

"Eight of clubs," he said, furrowing his brow and counting as he went. "E, one. I, two. G, three. H, four. T, five. O, six. F, seven. C, eight. L, nine, U, ten, B, eleven, S, twelve."

Hesitantly, almost holding his breath, Jack slowly picked up the next and thirteenth card from the top of the deck.

It should have been the eight of clubs…but of course, it wasn't. It was the three of hearts, instead.

Cursing softly to himself, Jack hastily slammed the two decks together and shoved them back into his desk drawer, just as Constable Walker from across the hall came striding absently through the room with a folder in his hands.

It had been a magic trick done with these same basic playing cards that Jack had seen performed at a magic and sleight of hand show only a few weeks ago. No magician ever explains his secrets, but the trick had just looked so damn easy that Jack had been struggling for days trying to figure out just how to do it. By now, it had started to really bother him that he couldn't seem to sort out the secret, especially since, for an experienced police detective who'd solved far more deep and complex mysteries, figuring out a ridiculous little card trick really shouldn't have been so inexplicably hard.

Phryne, Jack knew, probably would probably have figured it out in a few minutes.

 _Although she might decide she didn't want to know, after all,_ he thought frowning to himself.  _She always did love magic, and part of what makes it feel like real magic is that it's a mystery that you haven't solved…that you can't quite figure out. I suppose that's part of the mystique that makes magic shows and tricks so popular. Not everyone wants to be disillusioned._

"A carful man," Phryne had accused him of being, once, gently teasing him with a softer-than-usual smile and a certain, inscrutable look in her eyes, "who professes to be cynical in the face of mysteries that he can't explain, and claims to have no passions.

The longer she stayed away, the more Jack started to feel like England was somehow in an entirely other world, and that the careful, cynical, passionless man he'd been was giving way to a desperate sort of unfamiliar creature who fixated on simple card tricks as a way of passing the time, and who was frustrated too easily by passions that came from somewhere deep inside him; somewhere far more mysterious and distinctly more disturbing than any unsolved case he'd ever faced before.

Now, some nights, when the loneliness seemed like it might go on horribly forever, Jack could still hear her whisper, "come after me."

Some nights, he hated himself for having been too much of a coward to go.

* * *

 

 **Author's Note:** So, that turned into a little half-hour freewrite, maybe a little character study in Jack Robinson.

I really shouldn't keep going…but maybe I will. We'll see how I feel in the morning. I suppose I have some other chapters to attend to, first…I'll have to try not to think too much about this one, enticing though I'm undeniably finding it.


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note:** The strange thing about this story is that I don't think it's going to be based around any kind of murder mystery.

Maybe what Jack and Phryne really need is a chance to sincerely connect without there being a killer on the loose or other, far more murderously pressing things to occupy their attention.

Let's see. It's an experiment for me, anyway, but I do like the idea of focusing more intensely and intimately on character than on plot, for a change.

* * *

**Chapter One**

On Friday night, Jack didn't dine alone. Instead, having solved a complicated and gruesome case of poisoning with the invaluable help of Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan, he invited the good doctor to join him for the evening at Stranos.

"It's a handsome offer, Jack," announced Dr. MacMillan as they settled down at Jack's usual table amongst just the right number of people excitedly chattering to each other in what occasionally sounded like disjointed combinations of English and Italian. "I feel it's only fair that I tell you up front, however, thatif you're looking for company for the rest of the evening, I'm probably not the right woman for the job."

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"No offense meant, of course," she went on, smiling ruefully. "I've always said that if I had to choose a man then you'd be just my type, but as of yet I have no plans to convert. Marriage to my work is likely to be as close as I'll ever get. As long as we're clear on that."

She gave him an amused sort of half-smile to show that she was teasinghim, and Jack just nodded respectfully.

"You're perfectly safe from my masculine wiles, Dr. MacMillan," he assured her. "I'll be more than satisfied with company for dinner alone and perhaps a friendly face with whom to share the wine."

He smiled, and she smiled, and Jack found that he was even more relieved than he'd expected by the feeling of not being the solitary gentleman seated at the corner table with everyone's pitying eyes on his back.

"Call me Mac," suggested Dr. MacMillan. "Everybody else does, and 'Elizabeth' hasn't ever really suited."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack noticed Concetta Fabrizzi sweeping her way through the room, stopping to lean in and laugh with a customer at a table against the far wall.

"Phryne says," remarked Mac conversationally, "that the gnocchi here is to die for."

"She's not wrong," agreed Jack, stiffening automatically at the sound of Phryne's name. He coughed and glanced down at his menu, hoping that Mac hadn't noticed.

Mac only nodded.

"I got a letter from her the other day, you know," she went on, picking up the menu and glancing briefly over it at Jack as she spoke. "Sounds like she's having her usual idea of a ridiculously good time while she's vacationing in England. Fancy parties and crazy late nights…getting herself into all kinds of trouble."

"I wouldn't have expected any less," muttered Jack.

Mac paused expectantly, raising her eyebrows at him, but Jack kept his eyes stoically fixed on his menu.

Eventually, Mac just sighed in exasperation and shook her head.

"You're really not going to ask, huh?" Frowning, she slapped her menu back down on the table and stared at him until he had no choice but to meet her eyes. "Let me tell you something, Jack Robinson; you're not getting anywhere fast by pretending that you don't care. You're not fooling anybody, either. You're not even fooling yourself."

Briefly, Jack considered protesting that he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but Mac didn't let him get that far.

"Go on," she insisted. "Ask me what Phryne says in the letter. I'm sure you want to know."

Jack, now totally out of his depth, managed a shrug.

"I'm sure it's just more of the usual," he returned. "Up to her old, famous tricks. No doubt an unsolvable murder turned up the moment she set foot in the country; one that has successfully baffled the police for days, but that could never truly stump the Honorable Phryne Fisher."

Mac made a face at him.

"Not this time, actually," she said. "As a matter of fact, seems like Phryne's been having a totally different kind of fun, lately. Have you ever heard of someone called 'Algie Garfield?"'

Jack frowned.

"Algernon Garfield, the renowned English archaeologist," he said. "Yes, I've heard of him. Apparently he unearthed some kind of ancient burial ground in Egypt a few months ago. I understand that it's considered to be one of the greatest contributions to historical research made in the twentieth century."

"The twentieth century's only just begun," retorted Mac, "but yes, that's him. Apparently he's a friend of Phryne's mother's cousin, or something, and so of course they've 'been to call.' Phryne was all excited in her letter about some dig that he promised to take her on at the end of the month, and about a diving trip that they apparently took together around Christmas time, which sounds absolutely unhealthy considering the climate in that part of the world."

Jack sighed under his breath and tried not to let himself be too irritated and hurt by the image in his mind of Phryne Fisher in her bathing costume, laughing in the arms of a dashing, mustachioed man with a perfectly chiseled chin and the sun-tanned skin of a hardened African explorer.

"Oh good," said Mac. "Finally, a reaction!"

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"Don't look at me like that," demanded Mac. "There's another man out there running around with your, girl, and you're just sitting here trying to pretend that you're happy settling for pasta five nights a week and being 'married to your work.'"

"I never said anything of the kind," Jack reminded her curtly.

"No, you didn't," agreed Mac readily, "but you sure as hell haven't said anything to the contrary."

Jack took a deep breath and finally laid his menu down.

"Three points," he said quietly, holding up three fingers. "Firstly, Phryne Fisher is not 'my girl,' and she's made it perfectly clear to me on several occasions that she never will be; not mine or anyone else's."

Mac shrugged.

"Semantics," she muttered, but Jack just ignored her.

"Secondly," he went on, "She is almost always running around with another man; a few characters come to mind in particular, most of whom were fascinating artists, or celebrated magicians, or decorated pilots, or-!"

Mac sighed, and Jack trailed off, shaking his head in frustration.

"My point is," he finished, "that she has a type, and that type is exciting, romantic men with some sort of fascinating history or unexpected problem to keep her interested for long enough to make it to the 'sanctity of the boudoir.' I'm afraid that a simple, stolid police detective could never even hope to fall into that illustrious category."

Jack didn't realize how bitter he sounded until he heard the last of his own angry words drifting over the ambient music and saw the unimpressed look on Mac's face.

"Can I tell you something, Jack?" Mac was frowning thoughtfully at him, now. "I really have always had the greatest respect for you. As a man, you're a lot better than most, and as a detective you're top of the line, but for a smart, savvy police detective, you can be awfully dense and stupid when you put your mind to it."

Jack bristled.

"She waited for you," Mac went on. "She waited for you for months until it looked as though you were never going to get around to being honest with yourself."

"And then when I did 'get around to it,'" countered Jack, lowering his voice to try and spare the rest of the diners from what had now become an uncomfortably personal conversation. "When I did finally give her the romance that you claim she so desperately wanted…she left, without a second thought; without even so much as a letter. I think she's made her feelings on the subject of my interest perfectly clear."

"Out of sight, out of mind," mused Mac. "Or maybe just 'too little, too late?"

Jack didn't bother responding to that one.

"It doesn't matter," he began after a moment. "I wouldn't-!"

"But you should," interrupted Mac. "Listen, Jack, I know from experience how difficult and how flighty she can be, sometimes, but Phryne's an amazing woman."

 _You don't have to remind me,_ thought Jack.

"She's deeper, too, than I think you're giving her credit for," Mac went on, "and I think she was hoping that maybe, just maybe her tearing off across the ocean to another continent would be enough to wake you up and stir you into manly action."

Jack remembered the frankly ridiculous way he'd chased her across the airfield and all the romantic, poetic things that he'd dreamed up but hadn't quite brought himself to say when he'd kissed her ever so briefly and tantalizingly beside the whirring plane.

"I promised her once that I'd never tie her down, and I meant it," he muttered. "She can't be tamed, and she can't be trapped. Not Miss Fisher. If it's freedom she really wants, then far be it from me to ever-!"

"You don't have to try and tame her," insisted Mac. "You just have to try to talk to her. I honestly can't see any really good reason, Jack, why she can't have both you and freedom at the same time…and make no mistake, she wants you. She always has. Maybe even almost as much as you've always wanted her. It's just a matter of sorting out the little details at this point. Am I wrong?"

Those were genuinely encouraging words, especially from someone as deeply attuned to Phryne as Dr. MacMillan had always been. For a moment, Jack found himself starting to get excited, starting to hope almost desperately that maybe Mac was right and that he'd been torturing himself unnecessarily, reading all the signals wrong and driving himself insane for no good reason at all.

Then, of course, he remembered the reality of Phryne's long absence, her total lack of any correspondence whatsoever and the unfortunate but now undeniable truth of Mr. Algernon Garfield, soon to be award-winning and no doubt devilishly attractive British archaeologist.

Of course, Jack knew, even Mr. Garfield probably wouldn't last all that long with Phryne. She'd get tired of him before too long, and then she'd find herself some other remarkably brilliant single gentleman of fortune to pass the time with while waiting for either someone or something new and scintillating to catch her eye.

 _Too little, too late,_  thought Jack, Mac's words echoing around in his head.

"She's in the middle of an adventure just at the moment," Jack reminded Mac. "An adventure in which I very clearly have no place anymore."

"Well, if you want to entice her away from England and Mr. Garfield," retorted Mac, "then maybe you'll just have to be her next big adventure."

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** I will now have to embark on the "great adventure' of figuring out where my partner put all of the clothes that he wants me to put in the laundry before bed tonight.

Sometimes, I feel like Jack. My life just isn't exciting enough to be worth paying attention to. Le sigh.


	3. Chapter Two

**Author’s Note:** I am experimenting with posting another chapter.

This was originally published on my tumblr account ( **ariooc** ) as two individual character vignettes, but I hope you’ll agree that they come together in such a way that they really belong as a chapter of this story.

Now, I’ll freely admit that this chapter doesn’t advance the plot, and that no one actually makes any steps forward in this chapter (well, maybe Phryne does.) Again, it’s a character study and an experiment in focusing on capturing their thoughts and feelings more accurately and effectively.

The story will continue, with actual plot and focused action, in the near future, I think.For now, I hope you enjoy this little exploration.

* * *

 

**Chapter Two**

“Sir,” asked Constable Hugh Collins, turning to give Inspector Jack Robinson a long, doubtful sort of look. “Have you ever considered maybe taking a vacation?”

They were standing together at the back of the house in Melbourne’s relatively new Premiere Playhouse, an impressively gaudy theater that had opened up only months before to cater to the artistic tastes of the rich, famous and fantastic. At the moment, there were several actors up on the stage, rehearsing a piece in semi-dark with half of the stage lights turned off, while the technicians sorted out lighting levels and talked in urgent undertones a few feet away.

The play was William Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar,” and the night before, dramatically and somehow appropriately, the actor playing Julius Caesar had been murdered by person or persons unknown. It was now Jack and Hugh’s responsibility to sort out “whodunit,” and much as a murder case was never a treat, this particular investigation appealed to Jack’s more literary sensibilities.

 _Miss Fisher would have enjoyed this opportunity,_ he thought without meaning to, before he could stop himself.  _I’m still not certain she particularly cares for Shakespeare, but if nothing else she would have relished the opportunity to tease me and to try to cajole me into performing a few lines, for her. Not, of course, that I’m all too familiar with this play in particular. I’ve never actually seen “Julius Caesar” performed…_

Phryne Fisher, however, had now been in England for over six months.

 _No doubt,_ reflected Jack, sighing bitterly to himself under his breath,  _She has all the theater now that she could ever need…and all the actors, too, who’d recite her any play or poetry she pleases. Good for her. Maybe she’ll come home a theater enthusiast after all. That is…if s he ever does decide to come home._

“Sir,” repeated Hugh, now sounding a little alarmed.

“No, Collins,” muttered Jack, “I have never seriously considered taking a vacation. I’m not sure my wallet could stomach it, and if you haven’t noticed, we seem to get busier and busier these days. Doesn’t exactly seem like a good time to take off. Why do you ask?”

Hugh shrugged noncommittally.

“Oh,” he mumbled, “it’s…well, it’s nothing, sir it’s only that you…”

He trailed off, and Jack turned to raise a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Well, you seem a little tired of late, that’s all,” finished Hugh finally, shaking his head. “You’re just…you haven’t exactly been yourself.”

Jack winced, knowing what was coming.

“Since Miss Fisher left, I mean,” said Hugh apologetically. “It’s true, sir. I really think you ought to consider-!”

“I appreciate your concern, Collins,” said Jack, very quietly and patiently, looking Hugh so seriously in the eye that Hugh swallowed and fell silent, taking the hint, “but I assure that there’s no reason for me to take any time off of work. I’m just…a little tired.”

“Yes sir,” agreed Hugh unhappily.

 _Besides,_ reflected Jack,  _taking a vacation seems counter intuitive, doesn’t it? If I really am struggling with the absence of Miss Fisher, then probably my very best bet is to focus more intently on my caseload. I need to get my priorities straight…to distract myself from an unwanted distraction._

Rosie, he remembered, had told him only a year or so ago that he’d “changed.”

“You’re a different man these days, Jack,” she’d told him, smiling. “I can see that you like where you are.”

At the time, Jack had almost been proud of himself for having, as she’d indicated, “taken” to policework. He’d taken it as a sign that he’d found a genuine calling; a place in the world that suited him, and that was an incredibly gratifying step. He’d felt powerful, and he’d felt good; maybe better than he’d felt since the war. He’d felt like himself again. 

Now, however, he no longer felt like that powerful, confident man attached to a profession that fulfilled him and made sense, and he was starting to come to the horribly unwelcome realization that maybe what Rosie had seen, his newfound comfort and content, had really had far too much to do with Miss Fisher’s refreshing presence in his life and not nearly enough to do with Jack himself and his own self-discovery.

 _I have the opportunity, now, to face myself again; to figure out who I’ve really become since the war and where I’d like to be in the future,_ he told himself.  _I’d like to become that person, really become the person who Rosie thought she saw that day…the fulfilled, confident, stable man with a life lived on his own principles. There’s no better time than the present…in the absence of Phryne. I can’t imagine a better time; or rather, a worse time to take a vacation._

“Mr. Carlisle’s been gone a long time,” remarked Hugh, glancing over his shoulder. “Thought he said he was going to come back and give us a tour of the backstage? Think we should just go in on our own, sir?”

“In a minute,” muttered Jack.

He was watching the actors onstage, most of whom had cleared off, leaving the two leading actors alone in the center of the stage, submerged almost entirely in darkness while the technicians bickered and shushed each other.

“Hear me, good brother,” begged one of the actors; a shorter man with bright red hair slicked back against his head.

The other actor, a broad-chested creature with incredibly dark, brooding eyes, shook his head in response.

“Under your pardon,” he muttered. “You must note besides that we have tried the utmost of our friends. Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. The enemy increaseath every day. We, at the height, are ready to decline.”

Turning to the almost empty audience, the broad, brooding actor took a step forward and faced the front row.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” he assured them, suddenly turning and staring, apparently, directly at Jack, “which taken at the flood leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries, and we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures.”

Hugh shook his head and let out an exasperated little breath.

“Never have any idea what these Shakespeare blokes are talking about,” he muttered. “Sorry, sir, but it’s all just garbled nonsense to me. I know you love the stuff, but-!”

“He’s talking about opportunities, Collins,” murmured Jack, still watching the performance on the stage. “It’s a famous speech from one army general to another, about how if you don’t seize your opportunity and take the risk when it’s ripe, you may never have another chance and forever regret your delay. I’m frankly surprised that you’ve never heard it before. It’s widely considered to be some of the bard’s very best work.”

Hugh nodded uncertainly.

“I…will have to look up the play, then,” he said, probably not meaning it.

Jack, however, wasn’t really paying attention.

 _There is a tide in the affairs of men,_ he thought, imagining the way that Phryne had whispered “Come after me,” before getting on that plane. Not for the first time, not even for the four-hundredth time he reflected that he’d never be a true man of action; that he’d been too careful and had already let an opportunity slip away that no doubt he’d never, now, have a chance to reclaim.

“And we must take the current when it serves,” he reflected under his breath, “or lose our ventures.”

Onstage, the scene ended, and the actors went their separate ways.

“Ah,” announced Hugh in some relief as footsteps sounding behind them in the hallway. “That must be Mr. Carlisle, then.”

* * *

 

The Honorable Phryne Fisher sat in the front row of the lovely old Camden Theater, watching an acclaimed, already award-winning production of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” grind to a beautiful, tragic close in its final act. Beside her, Algie Garfield, renowned African explorer and celebrated archaeologist sipped contemplatively at his drink, one hand continually bumping hers as they both sought for purchase on the same armrest.

Romeo, having stumbled upon sleeping Juliet in the tomb, had already killed Paris and then himself, and was now lying on the stage floor, bleeding just attractively enough, while Juliet, on her hands and knees, lamented at his side.

“What’s here?” She gasped. “A cup, closed in my true love’s hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end?”

Overturning the cup, she sighed with frustration when it proved to be empty.

“Oh, churl,” she mumbled, shaking her head, “drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after?”

Leaning over him, she gazed into his eyes for a moment, and then cupped his face in her hands, whispering only a few inches from his lips.

“I will kiss thy lips,” she assured him. “Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die with a restorative.”

Closing the gap between them, she kissed him softly, and Phryne felt Algie’s hand settle gently overtop of hers on the armrest. Uncomfortably, uncertainly, she found that she didn’t care for the contact, although she couldn’t think of any really good reason to insist on removing her hand. 

Romeo and Juliet’s famous kiss, as little things like kisses and caresses in movies and shows always did, nowadays, conjured up some strange, fluttering, unsettled feelings in Phryne’s breast that called to mind all sorts of delectable memories from far across the sea, none of which had anything to do with Algie Garfield.

“Thy lips are warm,” murmured Juliet.

Phryne let out an exasperated little sigh, finding herself frustrated and annoyed and unable to explain to herself just exactly why.

Algie turned to raise an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong, Phryne?” 

Phryne just shook her head and waved that away with a dismissive hand.

“I’ve never cared much for this play,” she whispered, laughing a little under her breath. “The ending feels…well, ridiculoulys contrived, if I’m being honest. I find that I struggle to sympathize.”

Juliet had, by now, said her final lines and was in the midst of plunging Romeo’s still dripping dagger into her chest. As Phryne and Algie watched, Juliet collapsed dramatically on top of Romeo’s corpse, and several of the other characters suddenly stormed in from both stage left and right, shouting and shaking their fists at one another.

“It’s such a waste,” whispered Phryne, watching Juliet’s eyelids flicker as the actress struggled not to blink while playing dead. “Such a miserable loss of life for no reason whatsoever…and the audience is meant to think that it’s ever so romantic.”

Algie looked surprised.

“But it is romantic,” he assured her, still carefully keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the people in surrounding rows. “They killed themselves for love.”

Phryne made a half-amused little face.

“Don’t you believe,” demanded Algie, “in love at first sight, Miss Fisher?”

Still with her eyes on the rising and falling breaths of the “dead” lovers, Phryne slowly shook her head.

“Do you know,” she whispered, “I don’t believe I do.”

Algie frowned.

“Oh, I do believe in many other things,” she assured him as the scene played on. “I believe in lust at first sight, certainly, and in the passionate connection between two people who’ve just met. I believe in the desperation that comes from the poignant need for instant gratification in the face of a desired object, and all of those things are magical in their very own ways, Algie, but…none of them are worth killing yourself for, certainly. They’re not worth killing anyone else over either, for that matter, romantic and dashing as the heroes and heroines of our most dramatic romances may seem to be. The idea of giving up your life and your future for what, is essentially, a passionate missed-connection isn’t magical at all…but it is tragic, I suppose. The older I get, and I’m certainly not saying that I’m old yet, the more ridiculous this particular play always seems to become.”

For a long moment, Algie didn’t say anything at all.

“Are you familiar,” he asked eventually, “with Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra?”

Phryne was, in fact, very familiar with the play in question. She’d known that it was one of Jack’s favorites; he’d quoted it more than once in her presence, and she’d read it once in a fit of curiosity, wondering if it would give her any further insight into the deep, dark, murky waters of Jack Robinson’s alluringly tortured soul.

“Cleopatra,” murmured Algie, “also kills herself for love.”

Phryne just shook her head impatiently.

“That’s different,” she assured him, thinking of Jack in her aunt Prudence’s parlor, clutching the Roman soldier costume she’d dredged up for him and murmuring in that low voice of his that somehow gave her tingles every time he used it, “a triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet’s fool.”

“And what,” demanded Algie, “makes it so very different?”

“Antony and Cleopatra,” Phryne explained to him simply, “have years of history together. They’ve made love in every sense of the word…they’ve come to care about each other through trials and hardships, denials and incredible, unbearable desire. In the case of the Roman soldier and the Egyptian Queen, it’s really a sacrifice for love; a meaningful sacrifice. In their case, then, yes, there genuinely is something magnificent about it.”

Phryne glanced to her left where her mother and father were sitting still raptly focused on the stage…and she discovered that the Baron and Baroness Fisher were unexpectedly holding hands.

 _And that,_ thought Phryne, realizing something for the first time that she’d perhaps always already known,  _is the difference between a love and a passing passion; passion is magnificent and easy, delicious and short-lived. Love is something that happens to people who’ve come a long way together…through the times that were more difficult, and the things they were sure they’d never bear._

The Prince of Verona had now begun to speak his final monologue, but Phryne had lost interest in the production. Now, she found herself thinking of Inspector Jack Robinson; of way he always looked slightly pained, uncomfortable and as though he was struggling internally against something whenever he reached for her hand, or kissed her, or made any sort of awkward little “romantic overture.”

It was when it had stopped being gay and easy between them, Phryne realized, that it had suddenly and somehow become something so much alarmingly closer to “love.”

On the stage, the prince finished his speech as Lord Montague and Lord Capulet convened reluctantly over the bodies of their bleeding children.

Quietly, Phryne slipped her hand out of Algie’s and laid it back in her own lap.

 _The triple pillar of the world, transformed into a strumpet’s fool,_ she thought, smiling to herself and shaking her head.  _If you’re my pillar, Jack, then I suppose that makes me the questionable ‘strumpet…’ although if I were you, I wouldn’t worry. I may be your strumpet, but you’re no fool, Jack Robinson. I think you’ve made it clear enough that you’ll never play my fool._

“Come after me,” she’d teased him gaily, laughing with her eyes and trying to pretend, for both of their sakes, that it was all just another game. 

Part of her had whispered internally, had fervently wished that he would come; that he’d show up to stop her and to sweep her off her feet with a sudden barrage of that terrifying love that was always lurking in the very back of his eyes.

That, of course, had been ridiculous. It had been a romantic pipe dream that Jack couldn’t have fulfilled, even if he’d wanted to; and Phryne had known it even as she’d said it. 

 _I wish,_ thought Phryne, back in that deepest internal place where no one else could see it,  _that he’d wanted to._

* * *

 

 **Author’s End Note:** That came together a little better than I expected. As always, I am curious to hear your thoughts, but please forgive me if I don’t respond as quickly or as articulately as I usually do.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note:** I have been stewing over this story for days, and suddenly I am flooded with ideas as to where I want to go with it. Sorry for the long delay, loves. Life's getting busier.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The next evening, the Fisher family and Algernon Garfield abandoned classical theater in favor of spending the evening at Mr. Donald Carleton's 'Traveling Magical Fantasy Show,' playing in London for only a brief, sold out three night engagement.

"Algie tells me that you didn't care for the play last night, my dear," remarked Baron Fisher, settling himself down in the red plush theater seat next to Phryne, and giving her one of his very cavalier sort of grins. "Perhaps this will be a bit more to your liking? You have always been ever so fond of magic."

Phryne nodded.

"Mr. Carleton's performances so far seem to have received some absolutely glowing reviews," she returned, smiling and shrugging. "I'm looking forward to what I hope will be completely incomprehensible 'fantasy.' Of course...I'm a bit harder to fool than most. I have, after all, seen a fair number of magic shows in my time…and I've solved some mysteries far tougher than the question of 'in which sleeve is he hiding the missing queen of hearts?'"

Baron Fisher laughed.

"I'm sure you won't be disappointed," insisted Algie, leaning over to her. "As you say, this show has had the very best press. No doubt the 'Traveling Magical Fantasy Show' will meet even your appallingly high standards, Phryne."

"Let's hope so," returned Phryne, challenging him with a raised eyebrow. "I'm certainly ready to be amazed."

As the lights in the theater began to flicker and dim, Phryne, her mother and father and Algie all sat back and watched the stage while Mr. Donald Carleton himself emerged from the wings, dressed in the finest and most appropriate black and red silks, complete with perfectly suitable magician's top hat.

Everyone in the audience applauded politely.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," he began in a low, predictably ominous sort of voice, "without further ado, let us begin our parade of wonders!"

The audience applauded again, even more enthusiastically, this time, and Phryne found to her surprise and some embarrassment that she couldn't quite stifle a yawn.

* * *

At that same moment, Jack and Hugh were also spending a quiet evening at the theater. They tiptoed as carefully and silently as they could through the dark, deserted backstage of the Premiere Playhouse, while the actors were all engaged onstage, getting notes from their director prior to beginning their final dress-run of the show.

"Look, sir!" Suddenly, Hugh pounced on something lying atop one of the dressing tables, then turned and held it up for Jack.

"What is it, Collins?" Jack frowned, but Hugh was already looking disappointed, shaking his head as he carefully replaced the object where it had lain.

"Nevermind," he muttered, sounding annoyed. "Nothing after all, sir…just a stage weapon. One of those plastic retractable knives…couldn't stab yourself with it if you tried. I thought it might have been a real dagger, but…I guess our killer isn't likely to have left the real murder weapon just lying out there where anyone could find it, is he?"

Returning to the dressing table where Hugh had originally stopped, Jack bent down and retrieved the dagger, turning it over in his hands and examining the fake, plastic handle.

"Amazing that we haven't found the murder weapon yet," remarked Hugh unhappily, shaking his head. "I mean, we know that one of the daggers in the murder scene must have been replaced with the real thing, right? So…then what? The guy playing Caesar dies, and then the guy who killed him just shoves the bloody dagger back into his…his robes, or what have you, and waltzes off the stage as though nothing's happened? We'd find traces of blood on his costume, sir, wouldn't we?"

"Presumably we would have, if that's what had happened," muttered Jack. "It's always possible that our murderer may have dropped the dagger when he left the stage, and that it may have been picked up or cleared away by a stagehand. In that case, of course, the dagger would have been helpfully deposited either back onto the props table…or directly onto the dressing table of the actor who'd need to pre-set it in his costume."

Pressing the button on the handle, Jack watched as the retractable blade flicked out of the dagger in his hand.

Even in the backstage darkness, he caught the glint of metal from the blade, and noticed the dull, rusty red stains.

Hugh's eyes went wide.

"Seems that's exactly what he did do, sir," he murmured.

"He didn't replace a retractable dagger with a real dagger," muttered Jack, nodding to himself. "He only replaced the retractable dagger's blade…with a far more lethal one."

Hugh produced an evidence bag, and Jack deposited the dagger into it, careful to keep his fingers off of the blade where he hoped that maybe, just maybe, they'd be lucky enough to find incriminating fingerprints.

"Collins," he demanded, "whose table is this?"

Hugh glanced over at the table.

"Says 'Evelyn Jackson, sir," said Hugh. "Evelyn…isn't that sort of an unfortunate name for a man? Could have changed it easily, couldn't he? I mean, people do that all the time in the theater, what with stage names and such."

Jack frowned.

 _Evelyn Jackson,_ he thought, nodding slowly.  _Our leading man…the highly-lauded tragic hero. Et tu, Brute?_

* * *

"And for my next trick," announced the Magnificent Mr. Carleton, spreading his arms invitingly over the audience, "I will need a volunteer!"

Phryne, watching Carleton's lovely assistants setting up the tell-tale guillotine behind him, was sure that she already knew exactly what the trick would be.

"I need someone brave," boomed Mr. Carleton. "No, not brave…but FEARLESS! I need an adventurer with amazing aplomb and perfect self-control, trusting enough to place his life into my capable hands. Is there any such fearless soul in the audience tonight? Anyone at all?"

"Well, when he puts it like that," murmured the Baroness Fisher, pursing her lips and shaking her head.

"Some people," returned Baron Fisher soothingly, "enjoy a good life-threatening risk now and again. Don't they, my dear?"

He glanced over at Phryne. Phryne grinned at him, winked at her mother, and then got suddenly to her feet.

"I'll give it a go," she announced. "I think I might just be brave enough, Mr. Carleton."

Startled murmurs rippled through the audience as all eyes turned to fix on Phryne.

For a moment, Mr. Carleton looked taken aback.

"Phryne," hissed Baron Fisher warningly. "Haven't we learned our lesson about guillotines?"

Phryne only shrugged.

"I certainly have," she countered. "I know exactly how the trick works, and how to check for any traps or signs of sabotage. I'll be perfectly fine, father."

"Miss," boomed Mr. Carleton, "are you entirely certain that you understand the risk you will be taking? This blade is very sharp…and fully, truly lethal."

Stepping over Algie's legs, Phryne made her way out in the aisle and approached the stage.

"Oh, I'm sure it is," she agreed amiably, climbing the steps to join Carleton in front of the guillotine. "After all, where would be the fun if it wasn't a real risk? I willingly and trustingly place my life in your hands, Mr. Carleton."

She extended a hand, flashing him one of her most winning smiles. Carleton accepted the hand, looked directly into her eyes, and kissed her hand just a bit too slowly before dropping it back to her side.

He was gazing at her, now, with that same, very familiar look that Phryne saw so often in the eyes of men she encountered. It was a rapacious, gleeful, half-seductive and half-hungry sort of look that was typical of any man who'd just identified a particularly choice piece of feminine flesh, and not for the first time that evening, Phryne found that she was bored by it.

"And what," asked Carleton quietly, "is your name, my lady?"

"Phryne Fisher," returned Phryne, giving him a little bow. "At your service, Mr. Carleton."

Taking her hand again and turning her triumphantly to face the audience, Carleton announced, "the brave, the beautiful, Miss Phryne Fisher, everyone!"

The audience applauded eagerly, some still whispering and chattering to each other in low voices.

Phryne could see her father and mother looking vaguely apprehensive, and Algie looking startled but attentive, his eyes fixed on Phryne's face.

"And now," began Mr. Carleton ominously, "without further ado-!"

"Just a moment, Mr. Carleton," interrupted Phryne.

Carleton turned to face her in some surprise.

"Yes, Miss Fisher?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"Not at all," retorted Phryne. "It's only that, before I place my life unreservedly in your hands, I'd like to check over your equipment. Just for my own peace of mind, of course."

She smiled, and Carleton smiled, although there was something slightly strained a little more irritated, now, in his smile.

"But of course, Miss," he murmured, gesturing grandly at the guillotine. "Check anything you like. I wish, of course, for you to feel entirely safe and secure."

"Thank you." Phryne nodded at him, then hurriedly strode over to the guillotine, running her eyes over it in a careful search for the appropriate pins that would prevent her from actually losing her head.

 _All of this seems to be in order,_ she thought approvingly.  _Everything that should be here is here…and, yes, nothing extra's been added. No extra pins or little toys in the works. I'm sure it'll be just fine._

Nodding to herself, she returned to Carleton's side.

"I'm perfectly satisfied," she informed him.

"Are you sure," demanded Carleton," that you're ready, then?"

Phryne only nodded, and the two assistants came forward, one on each side, to lead her back to the guillotine.

Now feeling perfectly comfortable with the trick, Phryne settled her head into the machine as the assistants began preparing the 'blade.' Gazing out into the audience, Phryne registered the horrified looks on the faces of several of the ladies, and the slightly green, queasy expression on the face of one particularly well-dressed man in the second row.

"Well, Miss Fisher," boomed Carleton, again spreading his arms dramatically wide. "Any second thoughts…or final words for your friends and family?"

Phryne was just opening her mouth to respond to that when she noticed, a few rows back, a plain clothes policeman in a blue wool suit sitting alongside an overdressed pink fluffy thing with jewelry in her hair.

Phryne's heart skipped a beat as, for just a moment, the side of the man's close-cut regulation head looked almost like that of Jack Robinson.

She was, momentarily, thrilled and delighted to see him, and she started to smile…but then, of course, the man turned himself to face her again, and it turned out not to be Jack after all.

 _Of course it couldn't be him,_ thought Phryne, irritated with herself.  _Jack's all the way back home in Melbourne._

She only had a moment to register with some surprise that she now thought of Melbourne, apparently, as 'home.'

"Jack," she whispered, biting her lip.

Then, before she had time for any more thoughts or feelings of any kind, Donald Carleton threw up his hand, signaled to the two assistants, and the guillotine's blade came crashing down, eliciting gasps and cries, even from the back row.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** I've decided to focus on this story for a little while, although I still have every intention of returning soon to my other. The other one needs…some thought, a little bit more work and consideration. I'm not sure I'm happy with it.

I have some big ideas for this one, so we'll play here for a little bit, shall we?

As always, you can find more updates on my work on my tumblr,  **ariooc.** I promise, I won't actually plug that in EVERY chapter.


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note:** Time to start picking up the pace and moving a little faster towards a plot! Can we get out two updates in one day? Can we? I don't know, but we've done it before! Fingers crossed, everybody that I get this finished before rehearsal time!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

The next evening, around ten o'clock, Jack was sitting at his usual table at Strano's with a discarded, half-finished plate of gnocchi beside him and a deck of playing cards in his lap, scowling to himself as he tried, for what must have been the seven-thousandth time, to figure out the secret to the simple card trick that was rapidly becoming his greatest nemesis.

"Alone again tonight, Jack?"

Jack looked up to find Concetta smiling down at him with a stack of menus in her arms.

"You eat by yourself too much," she told him, shaking her head. "It's not healthy. It's lonely. May I sit?"

"Please," invited Jack, nodding at her.

Concetta sank into the chair across from his, placing her menus down on the table in front of her and sighing a little in relief.

"It has been," she told him, shaking her head, "a long night, already. So many people…business is good, and I am tired."

Jack smiled.

"I'm glad to see things are going well for you," he told her.

"Thank you," murmured Concetta. "I should be very proud…and I think I am. What's that you're playing at?"

She gestured to the cards in Jack's lap, and he frowned and placed them on the table, shaking his head.

"It's nothing," he assured her. "Nothing yet, anyway."

"Is it a magic trick, then?" Concetta looked pleased. "I had no idea that you were a magician, Gianni."

At the sound of the old, affectionate nickname, Jack winced a little and cleared his throat.

Concetta was still smiling.

"Well," she asked, "May I see it?"

"I wish I could show you," mumbled Jack, "but I'm afraid I haven't quite figured it out, yet. The mystery somehow continues to elude me."

He sighed, frowning to himself, and shoved the cards back into his pocket. When he looked up at her Concetta again, her eyes had softened, and there was something so genuinely sympathetic about the look on her face that Jack found it almost unendurable.

"All of the magic, then, has gone out of your life," she whispered. "Is that it, Gianni?"

To that, Jack made no reply.

"I haven't seen your Miss Fisher around lately," remarked Concetta quietly.

For a long moment they sat in silence, until finally Concetta sighed again and leaned forward across the table.

"You need," she told him, "to be brave, Jack."

"What?" Jack looked up in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

Concetta only shrugged.

"I hear things," she told him. "The other night, when you came with the red-haired doctor…I heard. I know that your love has gone away and that you are pining, waiting for her to come flying back to you…but that is not enough. If you really love her, Gianni, then you must go and prove to her why she should want so much to come home….to come home to you."

"It's not that simple," muttered Jack, shaking his head.

"Yes," countered Concetta gently, "it is. Love is a beautifully simple thing, and when you feel it, you must act. You have been lonely for far, far too long, and you are a remarkably wonderful man. You are much too good a man, Jack, to be lonely. It breaks my heart to see you this way. I do not want to see it anymore."

Jack took a short breath.

"I can't," he began, but Concetta didn't let him finish.

"Yes," she insisted, "you can. It may not be easy, but you can do it, Jack, and you should do it because you love her. Tell me, what can possibly be more important than that?"

She waited expectantly, and Jack found that he had a hard time tearing his gaze away from the kindness in her eyes.

"Concetta," he began slowly, hesitantly. "I don't have to go anywhere. Not anymore. We don't have to be lonely, either. Perhaps, this time, if you'd have me, then you and I could-!"

Concetta's face darkened for a moment, and she quickly shook her head.

"No," she murmured, "we could not. Please don't insult me, Gianni. I know that you have the best of intentions, but is it not fair to ask any woman to be the second choice of a man she loves."

Jack instantly felt ridiculous and miserably guilty.

"I…I'm sorry," he stammered, no longer able to look in her in the eye. "I shouldn't have. I've already wasted that opportunity."

"It's all right," Concetta assured him, still achingly gentle. "You are lonely…and you are desperate. You didn't mean it, and I forgive you."

Again, there was a now much less comfortable silence between them.

 _Of the two of us,_ thought Jack,  _she's the far better…the far more deserving. No matter what she says about how good a man she thinks I am, I've now hurt her twice. I'd be far better off with a good woman like Concetta. I've always known it...but perhaps I'm not good enough for her, in the end. If I was, we'd never be having this conversation._

"Yes, Jack," said Concetta quietly. "I do still care for you…and that is why I want you to go. I want you to go to your Miss Fisher because caring and love do not just fade away in time and disappear if we ignore them. I will always care for you…and although I will be happy with another man, someday, I do not think I could ever completely forget you."

"Concetta," began Jack, but again, Concetta cut him off.

"And you," she insisted, "will never forget her. You shouldn't try. You must go after her and convince her just how much you care, and when she understands, you will finally be happy and you won't ever have to try and forget about anything…or anyone."

 _It really isn't that simple,_ thought Jack, as Concetta continued to watch him.  _Or maybe…maybe it is, and I'm simply afraid that Dr. MacMillan was right, and that we've already passed the point of no return and that we're too far into the realm of 'too little, too late' to reclaim each other, now. Perhaps it's more of a combination of the two._

"Tomorrow," began Concetta, but this time it was Jack who interrupted her.

"Tomorrow," he assured her, "I'm going to submit for analysis the fingerprints that we took from the murder weapon in the Premiere Playhouse investigation. If they turn out to belong to the man whom I assume committed the crime, then I'm fully prepared to make an arrest. I'm a little busy tomorrow."

Concetta only shrugged.

"Good," she said. "And then after that, perhaps the next day, you will go and see Miss Fisher."

"Concetta," called a man's voice urgently from somewhere back in the kitchens.

"I must go," announced Concetta, collecting her menus quickly and getting to her feet. "I will see you again, Jack…but not too soon, I think. For a while, at least, I think that you will have to go far away from us…and of course, we will miss you. I hope that you'll still come back and visit us again."

"Always," murmured Jack. "Goodnight."

He watched as Concetta flitted away to answer the call, and then, still frowning to himself, he got to his feet, laid the money on the table for the bill, and then started thoughtfully out of the restaurant and into the street.

 _It takes almost three months to cross to England by boat,_ he reminded himself.  _A three month vacation is an absolutely insane idea…and of course, I'm not even accounting for the months it would take to return. I can almost see it now; my standing on the doorstep to the Baron Fisher's impressive mansion, watching Phryne greet me like a disinterested, vaguely pleased sort of old friend who's come, rudely and unexpectedly, to stay. Of course, I'm sure her parents wouldn't be too shocked by the idea of an unexpected man coming to call. She already has, as I understand it, one gentleman houseguest at the moment...unless I'm behind the times. That's always possible._

Lost in his own unhappy thoughts and wondering despite himself just what it would cost to charter a private plane all the way across the ocean, Jack stood at his car door and fumbled for his keys.

He barely noticed the other motorcar pulling up behind him until the car aggressively accelerated, and the sound caught his attention.

Jack turned around just in time to see the expensive-looking black car veer abruptly out of its lane, coming straight for him.

He only had time to turn instinctively away before it ran him down, slamming hard into him from behind and throwing him flat against the pavement. He grunted in pain, his brain spinning and everything going dark and nauseating as his fight-or-flight reflexes kicked in and he tried desperately to pull himself back up onto his feet despite the incredible agony of what must have been several broken ribs.

Unfortunately, he couldn't be quite fast enough, and before Jack had the chance to run for it, the car came at him. Somehow, he managed to get one of his legs tucked up under him in time as he prepared to lever himself up and to run, but the car kept rolling forward over his remaining outstretched leg, crushing the leg completely under its weight.

Jack could feel the bones crunching and snapping, and as soon as he was able to breathe again, he screamed for what was probably the first and last time in his adult life.

Then, as the sound of heavy footsteps indicated that someone, at least, had heard either his cries or the sound of the car's engine, the pain finally proved too much for him, and the world went beautifully, horribly, mercifully black.

* * *

Long after midnight, Phryne sat in the Baron's drawing room, still in the shimmering dinner dress she'd worn at the restaurant that evening with Algie.

As the clock ticked placidly away behind her on the wall, Phryne nursed a cup of now long-cold tea, and sighed to herself.

"Oh dear," murmured Baroness Fisher, unexpectedly sweeping in from the adjoining kitchen with a sadly teasing sort of smile on her face. "I'd know that sigh anywhere. Any woman would, I'm sure."

"Mother," muttered Phryne warningly.

"Can it really be," insisted the Baroness, ignoring her, "that my precious, precocious, alarmingly independent Phryne has finally fallen in love?"

Phryne gave her mother an exasperated look.

"I'm not a child," she said quietly. "I'm neither precious nor precocious."

"Then you don't deny it," countered the Baroness. "I'm right, aren't I? You are-!"

"I am not," retorted Phryne, sighing, "particularly interested in discussing the state of my romantic affairs; thank you, mother."

"If not with your mother," returned the Baroness without skipping a beat, "then who can you discuss them with? Honestly, Phryne, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Romance is only-!"

"I'm not ashamed," sighed Phryne. "I've never been ashamed of romance in my life. There's nothing shameful about a good passionate play….but I make a point of never kissing and telling, so there's no point in trying. My lips are sealed."

The Baroness made a face.

"This isn't Algie Garfield's doing surely," she murmured, a bit uncertainly. "You couldn't possibly be in love with him. I mean, that is…well, he's certainly dashing, and endlessly attractive, no doubt, but still..."

Resignedly, Phryne finally turned and gave her mother her full attention.

"I am not," she assured the Baroness, "even remotely in love with Algie."

"Oh." The Baroness looked pleased. "Well, good, then. I did think that you were beginning to tire of him. Lord knows that your father and I feel very much the same way…but I'm afraid he's really quite infatuated with you, darling, and so getting him out from underfoot seems to have become a bit of an ordeal. Do let me know if you have any suggestions."

 _He was so fascinating at first,_ thought Phryne.  _So full of interesting stories and eager to have adventures...and that was exciting, for a while. Still, I suppose by now the stories have all gotten old, as I've heard them all a hundred times already, and the adventures have turned into too many ho-hum nights at the theater, doing all the same things we've done so many times before.  It's all just somehow lost it's spark. It's always that way, in the end. Eventually the magic, no matter who it is or how wonderful it's been, always fades._

Uncomfortable with the shrewd look in her mother's expectant eyes, Phryne started to get up from the sofa.

"It's late," she announced. "I'd better go to bed."

"Your father," countered the Baroness slowly, "once mentioned a certain….handsome Inspector. Jack, wasn't it? Jack something…Johnson, perhaps?"

 _You know perfectly well what Jack's name is,_ thought Phryne, amused and a bit resentful at the same time.  _You've never forgotten a name or a face in your life, mother._

"Jack Robinson," said Phryne quietly, "is a professional acquaintance, mother; nothing more. He's an official ally, if you will, although I think my long sojourn in England has rather ended our partnership. We're very different people, with very different lives. We're ridiculous wrong for each other. When it comes to the more delicate matters of our personal lives, there's very little we actually agree on. 

 _Perhaps,_ she thought doubtfully, neither for the first nor the last time,  _it' really is time for us both to accept that, painful though it may be. It's been a long time coming...and all good things must eventually come to an end._

"Nonsense," murmured Baroness Fisher, shaking her head. "I can see it in your eyes; you don't believe a bit of that. Just saying that man's name, whatever it is, makes your whole lovely face light up."

Phryne couldn't deny that, and so she said nothing at all, pretending instead to be examining a portrait of her Aunt Prudence hanging ever-so-slightly askew on the far wall.

"What is it, then?" The Baroness frowned. "He's clearly done something to turn you off of the affair. Has he hurt you somehow, or…? No, perhaps that's not it. Perhaps you've hurt him."

Phryne winced.

 _Not yet,_ she thought,  _but I'm afraid that Jack and I are heading, rather inexorably, in that direction...and that will never do. There's no reason to let any of this turn into a misery. At least I'm making a conscious effort not to destroy a good man._

"Well, whatever it is you've done to the poor boy," The Baroness was saying, shaking her head, "if he truly does care for you as devotedly as your father says he does, then there's no doubt that he'll find it in himself to forgive you. Lord knows that your father has been a trial to me many times over the years. He's been dissolute, difficult, wayward and at times even faithless, but deep down he knows and I know, Phryne, that I can't help but always forgive him…because I love him. Love, I suppose, does allow for a certain patience that might otherwise seem completely impossible."

Phryne gave her mother a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm not interested in putting Jack through any of the torture to which father has repeatedly subjected you," she said quietly. "I've certainly learned enough from my father's 'wayward' years to be wise to all the ways that a misused love can injure someone. Perhaps you've been patient with my father's wandering eyes, but you shouldn't have been, I think…and Jack certainly shouldn't have to be. If I know from the start that I can't be the faithful, devotedly loving little woman that he truly wants, then I have absolutely no intention of torturing him by pretending to try. I should think that you of all people would understand that."

Phryne realized almost as soon as she'd finished speaking that it had all come out just a touch more harshly than she'd intended, but as she gazed defiantly over at her mother, the Baroness only shook her head and continued looking slightly sad.

"Well then," she said softly. "You're going to torture yourself instead, are you? I certainly can't imagine a clearer declaration of love than that."

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** *sigh* I came so close to finishing the chapter before rehearsal...but I didn't have time to edit its, so I saved it to proofread until now.

I did manage to get it posted before bed, though! That's something!


	6. Chapter Five

**Author's Note:** Welp, I was going to go the Maryland Renaissance Festival, today, but plans fell through at the last minute. On one hand, I'm stuck at home neatening up the apartment, but on the other hand, I have time to write another chapter! Huzzah!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Jack woke up in excruciating pain.

When he first opened his eyes, he couldn't make sense of his surroundings. All he could understand was the tearing pain in his ribs and the dull, pounding ache in his back, as well as a searing sort of scraping pain that came from the vicinity of his right leg.

The world was all a painful, distracting, disorienting blur.

It was only after a few of those tortured seconds that Jack realized, with a combination of relief and confusion, that something was missing. His left leg didn't hurt at all.

His left leg didn't feel at all.

Did he have a left leg? He was blearily, dully certain that he'd had one yesterday.

With horrible visions of amputations he'd seen in the war dancing dizzily through the back of his brain, Jack grabbed the blankets and threw them sharply off, then gazed down in surprise at both of his legs. The one, the right leg, looked a bit scraped up and bruised, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

The left leg, on the other hand, was so heavily bandaged that barely any of the skin was showing, and there was something…unsettlingly misshapen about it that made it look like anything but a leg. It was as though it had somehow swollen and caved in at the same time, bloated and yet shriveled a little bit into a swathed cartoon or caricature of a mangled leg.

Of course, it didn't hurt at all. It didn't feel…like anything.

Suddenly, as consciousness fully re-asserted itself, Jack felt intolerably nauseous. He fell back against the cushions with his head spinning, doing his best not to panic or let his horror get the better of him. He started taking deep, steadying breaths, sucking air in and blowing it out, forcing the nausea down and doing his best to regain control of his swimming head.

It was at that moment that the door opened, and Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan walked in.

"Oh," she said. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

Something about Mac's curt, no-nonsense, familiar bedside manner was an incredibly real relief to Jack.

"Terrible," he managed, and when his voice came out it was more of a croak. "What…?"

He started to force himself upright again, but Mac only shook her head sternly at him.

"Don't try to get up," she told him. "Don't move at all, if you can help it. You're in the hospital, Jack, and you're in pretty bad shape. Coming from me, that's saying something."

Jack gazed around at the four white walls, then down at the hospital cot he'd been resting on. Again, his head began to swim, and he had to force back the gruesome mental images of wartime hospitals, casualties and bleeding, screaming amputees.

"Do you remember," asked Mac patiently, "anything about what happened?"

Jack tried.

He'd been out to dinner at Strano's, he knew, talking to Concetta. They'd talked about…about Phryne, and about England, and about lost opportunities.

 _You'll never go to England now,_ he thought before he could stop himself, remembering the mangled, shattered look of his leg and trying not think too hard about the burning in his back and chest.  _You'll never make it to England, now._

"A car hit me," he rasped, shaking his head to clear it and then violently wishing he hadn't as the nausea surged back to the surface. "It knocked me down…and then-!"  
He remembered the incredible mind-numbing, brain-shatteringly painful sensation of the motorcar driving slowly, deliberately over his leg, and he shuddered, swallowing hard.

Mac just nodded.

"Yes," she said simply. "Exactly that."

Jack took the deepest breath that he could.

"It's bad," he muttered. "Isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," murmured Mac, with significantly less of her usual curt gusto. "Your leg's been crushed, Jack. It's a mess; you're lucky it's so bandaged up that you don't have to look at it. You wouldn't like what you'd see."

Jack said nothing.

 _Crushed,_ he thought confusedly, knowing exactly what she meant and yet somehow unable to make sense of it at the same time. It just didn't feel real. It didn't feel…like anything.

Striding over to the end of the cot, Mac reached out and tentatively prodded Jack's lower left leg with one finger. He knew she'd done it because he watched her do it, but there was no accompanying sensation in the leg. It was as though she'd stopped her finger just before touching him; as though contact had never actually been made.

"Well," she demanded. "Does that hurt?"

Jack only shook his head.

"Nothing, huh?" Mac sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

Muttering exasperatedly under her breath, Mac took the unresponsive left leg in both of her hands and examined it with just a little bit less gentle care than before.

"Those idiots," she mumbled, shaking her head and glaring at the leg. "If only they'd managed to get a real doctor there, sooner. Dr. Mardent says that by the time they got you to the hospital, the wound had already been wrapped up by an amateur…too much pressure on the injury in all the wrong places. Haven't any of these 'helpful bystanders' ever read a detective novel? You're NEVER supposed to move the body until the experts arrive."

"I'm…not a body," managed Jack.

"No," sighed Mac, "you're not, Jack. You're not dead, but your leg is."

Jack stared.

"I'm sorry," insisted Mac, "but it's better that you know. No point in trying to pretend we can fix this. We're not going to have to amputate it, if that makes you feel any better. Given your family  history of heart condition, I'm sure it's inadvisable in any case, and so far as we've gotten, the others all agree. We can probably keep it from getting infected if we're careful with our dressings, but you won't be walking on it again. Luckily for you, you've still got one that works. I've seen some much worse cases…but I guess that isn't much of a comfort."

 _The leg is dead,_ repeated Jack over and over in the back of his mind, trying to get his head around it.  _It won't walk anymore. I won't…walk anymore._

He found as he thought about it that part of him had known all along, ever since he'd woken up and discovered that the leg couldn't feel. He'd known, somewhere deep in the terrified depths of his mind, that the worst had probably happened.

A taunting, perverse sort of refrain was still echoingly softly around in his tortured brain.

 _You'll never go to England now,_ it chanted in some cross between Phryne Fisher's teasing tones and his own anguished understanding.  _You'll never make it to England now._

"That quick Fabrizzi woman at the restaurant got the license number," Mac was saying with grudging approval, turning her back to Jack to give him some merciful time to himself. "I bet I don't have to tell you who was driving that car."

Jack only nodded.

"Evelyn Jackson," he said quietly.

"That's right," agreed Mac, shooting him a grim little smile. "Well done, Inspector. Of course, it was an incredibly idiotic thing to do. Actors are pretty stupidly dramatic, sometimes. It didn't take long for Hugh to track down the car, and as soon as he did, he had Jackson arrested for attempted murder. Hugh says that there's a second charge of successful, premeditated murder coming up, as well. That right?"

Again, Jack nodded.

 _Hugh,_ thought Jack.  _Evelyn Jackson…what is it that I've forgotten?_

"The fingerprints," he said suddenly, starting to sit upright again and then, as the sharp stabs of pain intruded all over his body, remembering why that was absolutely out of the question. "Where are the-?"

"Lie down," ordered Mac. "Hugh's got everything taken care of already. Whatever evidence you were working on, he's already got it sorted into the correct channels. Everything's under control, Inspector. You'll have your man locked up before you know it."

Genuinely relieved, Jack lay back and tried to relax.

"You'll want to talk to Hugh about it when he gets back, I'm sure," remarked Mac, "but for now, I want you to rest. I'm going to give you something to help you sleep. You've had about as much painkiller as you can take, so this is all I can do to help you cope, just at the moment. Be brave for me, Inspector."

 _You have to be brave, Jack,_ thought Jack, remembering the words that Concetta herself had said to him what must have been only a few hours before.

Mac produced a surgical needle, and Jack obediently shut his eyes and lay uncomfortably back against the scratchy cot pillows as Mac administered the dose.

* * *

Jack wasn't certain just how much time had passed when he next woke up.

The hospital room hadn't changed at all, although unfortunately the pain medicine now seemed to be wearing off, and the various aches, tears and tortures were all beginning to scream for attention again, and again, the nausea was acute and hard to fend off.

Jack searched through his body's signals, hoping despite himself that at least one of those incredible pains might be evidence that his left leg was still alive after all…but soon he realized that the leg in question was, again, one of the only places on his body that didn't hurt.

 _Perhaps,_ he thought grimly,  _it would be better if I just pretended that I really am an amputee. Less cause to hope, in that case. If I read Dr. MacMillan's expression correctly, then there really isn't much use in hoping at all._

Dr. Mac, it seemed, had left; probably long before, when Jack had succumbed to the sleeping drug.

Instead of Mac, there now two other people seated a few respectful feet from Jack's bedside; two equally familiar faces that Jack found he was happy to see.

"Collins," he rasped, trying to clear his throat.

"S-sir," stammered Hugh, getting quickly to his feet and hurrying over to the cot. "How, uh…how do you feel, then?"

"We're so glad you're alive, Inspector Robinson," whispered Dorothy Collins, sniffling into her handkerchief and trying to give Jack a smile.

It took a moment for Jack to realize that Hugh, too, looked as though he might, just possibly, have been crying. There were, at least, potential traces of tearstains on his cheeks and in the corners of his eyes, although he had done his manful best to clear away the evidence.

"I'm all right," muttered Jack, aware even as he said it of how ridiculous that sounded.

Hugh just nodded, swallowing hard.

"Course you are, sir,' he assured Jack, taking a deep breath and forcing a ghastly smile. "I'm sure you'll be in tip top shape again in no time at all…isn't that right, Dottie?"

"Hugh," murmured Dorothy, gently admonishing. "Inspector Robinson isn't a child."

Jack noticed the way Dorothy glanced hastily down at his dead leg and then away again just as quickly.

"Tell me," sighed Jack, focusing his attention on Hugh, "about Evelyn Jackson, Collins. Dr. MacMillan says that you've got him locked up."

"That's right, sir," agreed Hugh, nodding firmly. "On charges of the attempted murder of a police detective, sir."

"That horrible man," whispered Dorothy, looking uncharacteristically furious. "If only Miss Fisher were here, Hugh…she'd know exactly what to do about a creature like that."

Phryne's name conjured up a totally different kind of pain in Jack's chest; but this was a pain, at least, that he knew better how to cope with.

"I don't think we'll need Miss Fisher on this case," he said quietly, forcing himself up on to his elbows to try and look Dorothy in the face. "We've got enough evidence already of both of Jackson's crimes to put him away permanently. Collins, I trust that I can rely on you to take the appropriate steps?"

"Absolutely, sir. Of course." Hugh nodded hurriedly. "And, of course, the commissioner says that you're to get as much rest and relaxation as you need, and that we can sort out the rest of the business when you're feeling up to it. Detective Anderson's stepped up to take over your caseload while you're recovering."

Hugh was still smiling, but his face flickered as he said it.

"Detective Anderson," muttered Jack, not even remotely impressed.

"Yes sir," mumbled Hugh. "It's…well, it's only until you're better, of course. Only a temporary, uh…"

He trailed off, apparently thinking better of finishing the sentence, but Jack already knew what Hugh had been about to say.

 _Only a temporary 'replacement,' Collins…isn't that it?_ Jack sighed.  _I wonder how 'temporary' that's really going to be. What use is a police detective without a working leg, after all? I only wish they'd assigned you someone slightly more competent than Anderson._

"I've…well, I've got to get back to the station, sir," mumbled Collins miserably. "Questioning, you know? Evelyn Jackson, I mean; he's in questioning."

Jack nodded.

"Of course," he said quietly.

"I'm going to get him for you, sir," said Hugh suddenly and far more intensely than usual. "I promise you, I'm going to…well, I won't let him get away with it. I won't."

Impressed despite his dire straits by the sudden defiant fire in Hugh's eyes, Jack almost started to smile.

"If there's anything you need, Inspector,' began Dorothy, "then I'm sure we can sort it out for you. I'll come by tomorrow, shall I, to see if there's anything I can get you? A change of clothes, perhaps? Yes, that's an excellent idea. Hugh will make sure to pick one up for you this evening after he's finished at the station."

Dorothy smiled.

"That's right," agreed Hugh, nodding. "Anything else at all, sir, too. You just say the word."

They all nodded, and smiled hesitantly at each other, and then eventually Hugh and Dorothy left; Dorothy lingering in the doorway for a few uncomfortable moments before reluctantly dragging herself away.

Not long after they'd left, another doctor came in, presumably the Dr. Mardent whom Mac had previously mentioned.

"Ah, Inspector," announced the doctor in a bluff, almost obnoxiously hearty voice that irritated Jack to no end. "Looking good, I see. Looking very well indeed. And how are you feeling?"

 _I feel like all unholy hell,_ thought Jack desperately, meaning it from his very core in every possible sense of the phrase.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Yes, I did. I crippled Jack. Please don't flame, it's not nice! : )

Oh, and before you ask (as I'm sure some of you very intelligent and well-read researchers will) I did do research on the nature of crush injuries before writing the chapter, so I can say with confidence that the injury Jack sustained could very well cause muscle death and paralysis. Science, beautiful science!


	7. Chapter Six

**Author's Note:** Second chapter today. See, I WAS cleaning up the apartment, but G has completely failed to erect the new dresser that I bought for him, and since I'm really no hope whatsoever at putting things together myself, I can't get all his damn clothes off the floor and into the dresser until he builds the thing.

On one hand, it's lovely that I have someone in my life who is competent at reading complex diagrams and building furniture pieces for me.

On the other hand, if I DIDN'T have the aforementioned gentleman in my life, I wouldn't NEED the damn second dresser. Where on earth did the stereotype come from that men don't have as many clothes and beauty products as women do?

This whole serious, long term relationship thing is all becoming a bit of a bore…nothing but laundry, laundry, everywhere, and not a drop to drink…

I apologize. Let's move on, shall we? I need the writing break.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

It was some few weeks after Donald Carleton's acclaimed magic show that Baron Fisher's butler, Mr. Morton, brought Phryne a letter at the breakfast table.

"For you, Miss Phryne," he murmured, placing the letter down delicately by her plate as Phryne herself took her seat alongside her father.

"Thank you, Mr. Morton," remarked Phryne, but Morton was already primly in the process of serving the coffee.

"From Melbourne, my dear?" Baron Fisher gave the postmark an interested look. "Friends at home getting anxious about you, are they? How many months has it been, now?"

"Perhaps," suggested the Baroness, smiling serenely from across the table, "it's from your handsome Inspector, Phryne. Do open it; I can't tell you how curious I am."

Aware that her mother was baiting her, Phryne ignored the suggestion and focused her attention on the envelope's return address.

"It's from Dot," she said, smiling. "How lovely! I wonder how she and Hugh are getting on with the trials and tribulations of married life."

 _I do hope she's as happy as she hoped she'd be,_ thought Phryne, frowning a little to herself.  _I know that Hugh's a good, truly loving man, but I wish they'd waited just a little bit longer before the wedding. Part of me can't help but wonder, after all the questions she'd been asking and all the late nights she'd spent stewing over it if Dot really was as ready for marriage as she professed to be. How many months HAS it been since I've been in England? Five? Six? Oh lord, what if Dot's writing to me to announce that she's going to have a baby? I wonder if life really has moved on quite that much for the ones I left behind…nothing ever seems to move on at all, here. It's like a lovely, beautifully stagnant little microcosm of perfect reality. Maybe what I desperately need is a good, bloody murder to spice things up…and I'm reasonably certain that if Dot were here, she'd be horrified to find me thinking such morbid, unsuitable thoughts._

Phryne was just in the process of slicing the envelope open with a fingernail when Algie Garfield suddenly emerged from the kitchen, tousled from sleep and looking startlingly unlike his usual, suavely composed self. There was something a bit more intense and wilder in his eyes than usual as he turned and fixed his gaze directly on Phryne's face.

"Good morning, Algie," said Baron Fisher amiably. "We've saved you some oatmeal. Do sit down."

"Thank you, sir," mumbled Algie, glancing quickly at the Baron and nodding once. "If you don't mind, though, I'd…I do need just a moment. I'd like to have a quick word with Phryne, if…if she's willing. Please."

"Oh my," murmured the Baroness, rolling her eyes.

She shot a quick, knowing look at Phryne, and shrugged.

Phryne's heart sank.

 _Oh dear,_ thought Phryne.  _And I had so hoped that it wouldn't come to this. You'd think that a skilled, experience adventurer would know better._

"Certainly, certainly," said the Baron, nodding encouragingly and waving a hand airily at Phryne. "Go along, my dear. We'll wait for you. Don't take too terribly, long, though; we wouldn't want the breakfast to get cold, now."

Reluctantly, still clutching her unopened letter from Dorothy, Phryne got to her feet, sighed under her breath, and followed Algie through the kitchen and into the parlor.

"Phryne," whispered Algie, taking her in his arms almost the moment they were sufficiently out of earshot of the rest of the family.

He kissed her fervently, drawing her tightly against him, and Phryne kissed him back for a polite moment before carefully disentangling herself and taking a step away.

"Well," she asked. "What is it, Algie? What's wrong? You look terrible."

"I feel…amazing," mumbled Algie, shaking his head. "Amazing and awful, and….and so very light, Phryne. I couldn't sleep all night, just thinking about you."

Phryne bit her lip.

"Algie," she began warningly, but Algie wasn't listening.

"I've never experienced anything quite like this before," he insisted, taking her by the arms again and gazing directly into her eyes. "After last night, I told myself that I wouldn't let another day go by without speaking to you…without telling you how I feel. I couldn't live with myself if I waited any longer. Phryne, you're unlike any other woman I've ever known. You're spectacular. You're incredible. You're…you're the greatest, more enthralling adventure I've ever had, and-!"

"Algie, please," said Phryne, very gently and very carefully. "Don't."

Something about the seriousness in her manner must have gotten through to Algie, because he suddenly stopped and widened his eyes at her.

"Don't…what?" He blinked. "I'm telling you, Phryne, that I love you."

Phryne shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I had no idea," she murmured softly, "that it had gotten quite that out of hand. I'm so terribly sorry, Algie. I'd thought I'd been perfectly clear about my feelings towards you…but apparently I wasn't quite clear enough. I'm sure it's really my fault. I am truly, sincerely sorry."

Algie's mouth just fell open in dumb surprise, and Phryne found that she pitied him terribly, and that she was angry with herself for having refused to acknowledge the warning signs sooner, and yet somehow angry at him, too, for being too dense to understand from the start.

"You can't mean," began Algie incredulously, in a low voice. "Surely you're not going to reject me just like that."

"You wouldn't want me if you knew me better," Phryne assured him, shaking her head and giving him a sad sort of smile. "I'm not that sort of a lady…and I thought you understood, Algie, that this was never that sort of an affair."

"I thought," muttered Algie weakly, "that you cared for me."

"I do care for you," Phryne assured him, careful not to be too sweet or gentle enough to give him yet another thoroughly wrong impression. "I do, Algie, and you're a lovely man. You're a brilliant, exciting sort of person, and you're very so kind…but that's never been enough for me, just as I told you from the start. I'll never be able to commit myself Algie, not to you or to any other man. It's just not who I am, and it can't be helped. I lose interest quickly and I refuse to be tied down…and I've always, Algie, always been perfectly honest with you about every bit of it."

Algie didn't seem to have anything to say. He looked so miserably shocked and dejected that Phryne was almost annoyed by it, which made her even more furious with herself.

"I genuinely believed," she said quietly, "that we were both having such a lovely, fun time. I'm so sorry that it's gone too far. It's certainly never what I'd intended."

It occurred to Phryne, as she continued to watch the pathetic look on Algie's now alarmingly childlike face that she should have noticed all this coming a little bit sooner.

 _Perhaps when it ceased to be fun for me,_ she realized,  _it was already becoming far too serious for him. Perhaps that's just exactly what happened to the magic._

"I…I understand," muttered Algie, straightening himself up rigidly and staring fixedly, blankly down at the floor by Phryne's feet. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Fisher, to have troubled you so. I seem to have…completely misunderstood."

"You've never been a moment's trouble," whispered Phryne sympathetically.

 _But yes,_ she thought sadly.  _It seems that you did, really, misunderstand. What a terrible shame. At least a broken heart is sure to mend. They always do, Algie. Do't despair. I'll be nothing to you soon enough. It only takes a little time...and sometimes another, a better lover._

"I'll…let you return to your breakfast, then," he mumbled woodenly, backing away from Phryne so quickly that she was a little worried he might smack into something on his way out. "Please, forgive me…my intrusion. I'll…I won't bother you again."

Phryne thought of calling after him, or of trying to say something gentle and reassuring, but she knew perfectly well that in a case like this, there wasn't really anything worthwhile to say. She was much better off leaving him to nurse his wounded pride, which eventually, hopefully in no time at all, would lead to a certain kind of healing.

 _He'll ultimately come to think of me as the she-devil who tricked him and stole his heart for her own pleasure,_ thought Phryne with just a touch of tolerant bitterness.  _He'll come to hate me for being a scarlet woman…and that's probably for the best. That will help him get over me all the more quickly. If only we'd both been more honest with ourselves...and with each other._

She thought, for a moment, of the most honest man that she knew, and of the night that he'd stood in her drawing room with several empty drinks on the table in front of him, assuring her with a slightly slurred but emphatic speech that, much as he enjoyed her company, he'd never be willing to be treated like "all those other men."

 _At least,_ she thought, frowning to herself,  _if nothing else, Jack and I have never hid from each other. We've never lied to one another about the future, or about our intentions…and although it may mean that we'll never reach any dizzyingly intimate heights, it does encourage a certain kind of refreshing trust. If only every man were as honest and straightforward as Jack Robinson._

As Algie stalked out of the room, Phryne sank down onto the couch and finally did tear open the letter from Dorothy, hoping to distract herself from the unpleasant refusal of most men to understand anything that clashed with their perception of the way women and romance should be.

"Dear Miss Fisher," began the letter. "I do hope that you're well, and I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your lovely vacation and your time spent with your mother and father. Please do send Baron Fisher my kindest and most respectful regards."

 _Dearest Dot,_ thought Phryne, smiling to herself.  _You write almost exactly as you speak…what a treat. I miss you terribly._

"I am not entirely certain when this letter will arrive in London," the letter went on, "but Hugh assures me that it will take at least several days and possibly some weeks before it reaches you. I am writing, therefore, in some haste to tell you about a terrible incident that took place here only last night, and I'm sad to say that I'm sure it will horrify you just as much as it has all of us….but I do think that you'd want to know, and I'd feel terrible if I'd kept it from you, so I just felt I had to write."

Phryne frowned, and read on.

The rest of the letter was just exactly as shocking and truly as horrible as Dot's first words had led her to believe.

"Jack," whispered Phryne as she finished the letter, dropping it back onto the sofa and staring blankly at the far wall for a moment, her mind reeling.

 _How long,_ she wondered,  _has it been since he was injured?_

Retrieving the letter, Phryne turned back to the first page and read the date at the very top.

 _Almost three weeks,_ she thought unhappily.  _I wonder how he's doing, now. Dot says he refused to stay with her and Hugh. I wonder if perhaps he's with Rosie, or…perhaps he's all alone. That does seem more like Jack. He'd probably insist on enduring the pain in silence, all alone, where he wouldn't be any kind of trouble; where he could nurse his griefs all by himself. It almost doesn't bear thinking about._

"Morton," she called, jumping up from the sofa and heading swiftly for the door. "I'm going to need my things packed as soon as possible. Just one suitcase will do; only the essentials. You can send the rest of my things along by post whenever it suits you. I'll manage."

A vaguely startled looking Morton appeared from the dining room, followed almost immediately by Baron Fisher.

"You're leaving, Phryne?" Baron Fisher frowned. "Is something the matter? Something, perhaps, in that letter from your friend?"

"I'm afraid so," agreed Phryne grimly. "I'm terribly sorry to bang out like this, father, but I promise that there's nothing else for it. I absolutely must get back to Australia as quickly as possible."

"Even if you left today," said the Baroness, coming around the corner to join her husband, "it will be three or four weeks at least before you're home again."

Phryne only shook her head.

"The fastest recorded plane flight to date between England and Australia," she assured them, "took only fifteen days. I fully intended to make the trip in ten."

Baron Fisher's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You WHAT? Phryne, be reasonable."

Phryne, however, had no interest at all in being reasonable.

"Morton," demanded Phryne.

Morton came abruptly to attention. "Yes, Miss?"

"Would you be a darling," she asked, "and come with me while I have a quick look at the plane? I have to do a couple of emergency repairs, and I may end up needing an extra pair of hands."

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** I did it! Two chapters in one day, twice in a row! I am a WRITING MACHINE!

Okay, enough crowing, time to get back to folding G's clothes…


	8. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note:** I have great news, friends!

The magnificent and brilliant  **AriadneandBacchus**  has been kind enough to consult with me on this story, and she's been teaching me fascinating things about appropriate treatment for crush injuries, physical therapy, etc, which is un-endingly helpful and wonderful.

Now, I actually wrote a super-long author's note, where I wrote a ton of things about the story, the chapter, my writing, my feelings, my thoughts about why I write the way I do…and then I realized that, dear god, none of you want to hear that nonsense. You're here for the fic.

If you're interested in hearing my rambling thoughts and feelings on the chapter and the story, however, please feel free to check out my tumblr. I had to put it somewhere, so I put it there.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Time passed in a vague, painful, repetitive sort of blur for Jack while he was in the hospital. For the longest time, the world felt like a haze of morphine-soaked naps and brutally blurry re-awakenings. There were uncomfortable, awkward visits from friends, acquaintances, and even the chief commissioner himself, once or twice, as well as a remarkable, unaccountably steady stream of injection needles and increasingly intrusive medical indignities.

Somehow, a month and a half went by, and eventually, as spring set firmly in and March came to a close, Dr. Arnold Mardent finally discharged Jack from the hospital on condition that Jack continue to receive competent and strict daily in-home care from Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan.

"I don't make a habit of home visits these days," Mac informed Jack on the ride back from the hospital to his house. "I'm a busy woman with plenty of consultations, in the prime of my career…but I suppose for you, Jack, I can make an exception. Of course, you're an old friend, and honestly I'm not sure Phryne would ever forgive me if I didn't keep an eye on you, after all. You'd better consider yourself lucky. I might have just left you in the hospital for another month. I'm not entirely sure that wouldn't be better for you, in the long run."

It was only a couple of days after his return home that Jack found himself, at ten o'clock in the morning, dressed only in his underwear and undershirt, sitting up against the wall on the makeshift bed that Dr. Mac had put together for him in his first-floor living room. The doctor herself was sitting in a nearby chair, frowning and nodding to herself as she watched him grunting and sweating his way through the dreaded daily ordeal of "physical therapy."

The state of vulnerable undress would have been distinctly more uncomfortable for Jack and probably out of the question if it hadn't been for the fact that Dr. Mac couldn't have been any less interested in Jack's masculine charms if she'd tried, and that Jack himself was far too distracted by the frustration of early-morning exercises to waste time caring about his muscles showing. Dr. Mac had assured him that he'd have to abandon modesty in favor of allowing her to monitor his healing skin grafts and his returning coloration, and after three days, it wasn't really as unbearably embarrassing as he'd at first assumed it would be.

Jack had always prided himself on being in excellent shape. True, he'd been in much better shape when he'd been even younger and first starting out in the police force, but until the recent car incident he'd certainly been physically fit enough to pass anyone's rigorous test.

 _Now I can't even sit up without assistance,_ thought Jack bitterly, gritting his teeth as he used his left arm to help swing both of his legs carefully, inexorably from side to side. Of course, the right leg moved itself, as it always had, but it was now impeded by the dead weight of the left leg, which wouldn't budge on its own.

"Very good, Jack," muttered Mac, nodding at him. "You're doing fine. How are you feeling?"

Jack cleared his throat.

"I'm all right," he assured her, although the damaged ribs were now starting to ache again, and there were now terrible tingling pins and needles rippling up and down the very top of Jack's left thigh, above the crush where it all went numb.

Mac gave him a wry sort of smile.

"Never lie to your doctor," she told him, shaking her head. "You're sweaty and you're straining. Don't overdo. Decide to play the strong, stoic, silent type and you'll only end up back in the hospital with further complications. I'm not planning on bailing you out a second time, you know."

Jack grimaced. It really did hurt.

"This shouldn't be so difficult," he mumbled under his breath.

"Yes it should," retorted Mac. "If it was easy, I wouldn't have to make you do it. You need to retrain your body, but gradually. It's not going to happen all at once."

Jack was disgusted with himself, but he was also starting to get a little bit dizzy.

"Two years ago," he said quietly, giving Mac a rueful sort of half-smile, "I won the annual police three-miler. If I recall properly, Collins took the prize for fastest underwater time, that year. It was a triumphant day for City South Station. Now look at me."

Mac's eyes softened just a little.

"You'll have many more triumphant days," she assured him with just a hint more gentleness than before. "Keep at your exercises, and you'll be up on your leg before you know it. I've always thought that a man cuts an extremely heroic, dashing figure on a pair of good crutches."

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"You have never,' he accused her, "thought anything of the sort."

Mac shrugged and snorted a laugh.

"All right," she agreed, "but it's only because most men really are unlovely louts, no matter how you dress them. You, my good Inspector, are the notable exception. There's nothing even remotely shameful bout an injury in the line of duty.

Jack shrugged. "

Now," Mac told him, "we'll do two more lifts, and then I'm calling a halt."

"I'm all right," insisted Jack defiantly, but there wasn't much point. Annoying as it was to admit, he really was starting to struggle.

"I'm sure you are" agreed Mac, "and you're going to get even better….but only if you aren't an ass about it. Don't argue. I think it's almost time for a cup of tea, don't you?"

Even as Mac finished speaking, with truly perfect timing, Dorothy Collins came around the corner into Jack's temporary bedroom with a steaming teapot and several cups on a tray. As she walked in, she carefully averted her eyes from Jack's cot, and kept them fixed demurely on the nearby wall while she spoke.

"Good morning, Inspector," she said brightly, smiling encouragingly at the wall. "Good morning, Doctor. How are the exercises coming along?"

"Fine, fine," replied Mac, standing up and going to relieve Dorothy of the tray. "You're exactly the woman we were waiting for Dot. I think we're just about done with exercise for today." Glancing up at the clock on the wall, she frowned suddenly. "I've got to get going in a few minutes, anyway. See that Jack gets his tea, will you? I want him drinking a full glass of water every hour, as well, and absolutely no skipping of meals. I'll be back to check vitals around lunchtime."

"Hugh's coming back for lunch today," said Dorothy, nodding. "It'll be nice to have a full house. Won't that be lovely, Inspector? Hugh's been so overwhelmed with work lately that he hasn't had had time to visit at all. He'll be thrilled to see you doing so well."

Jack sighed.

 _The only reason that Collins keeps getting buried under new piles of work,_ he thought,  _is that he is eternally picking up slack for the woefully incompetent Anderson._

"How," demanded Jack, "is Collins getting on with the investigation in to the Appleton suicide?"

Dorothy frowned.

"It's no good, Jack," Mac assured him, shaking her head. "Dot's under strict orders not to talk about anything murder or suicide-related."

Dorothy shrugged.

"I'm sure I couldn't anyway," she assured Jack. "Hugh knows much more about it than I do. We've barely even seen each other for days, so I haven't heard much about it."

Jack gave Dorothy a long, searching look.

 _I don't believe that for a second,_ he decided, watching the perfectly innocent look on Dorothy's pretty face.  _You have far too much experience as a private investigator's assistant, Mrs. Collins, to have let Hugh get away with not giving you any of the case details. I'll just have to ask Hugh about it myself when he gets here. Hugh's an intelligent man and he's got excellent instincts, but I highly doubt that Anderson's letting him take any initiative on this case. I want to know if Hugh suspects, as I do, that Mr. John Appleton's 'suicide' may have been…well, of the assisted variety. I suppose I don't have nearly enough actual information to start crying foul yet, but…well, no point in speculating about it. I'll have to talk to Hugh._

Frustrated, Jack shot a stern look at his unresponsive left leg.

"Come on, then," announced Mac. "Two more lifts, then you can wash yourself up we'll get started on breakfast…or at least, you will. I've overstayed my time already; not that it isn't always a pleasure."

Jack took a short breath, tried and failed to put annoyed thoughts of mishandled investigations out of his mind, and then slowly began levering his legs off the cot again, shifting them carefully from one side to the other, trying to use his left arm as little as possible in the process.

Dorothy disappeared around the corner, and then emerged again a few moments later wheeling Jack's hospital-issue chair.

"And that," said Mac decisively, "is that. Well done today, Jack. Be good for me and don't strive too much until lunchtime, won't you?"

"Thank you, Doctor MacMillan," began Jack, with as much masculine dignity as he could effectively muster, flushed and in his underwear. "I really-!"

Suddenly, there was the sound of an aggressive knock on the front door.

Mac frowned.

"You're not expecting visitors today, are you?" She shook her head. "I can't say that I'd really advise a lot of social excitement."

"Perhaps Hugh's back early," suggested Dorothy, her face lighting up hopefully. She left the chair by the end of the cot and turned to hurry to the door. "I'll be right back, Inspector! Don't get up. If its Hugh, maybe he can help you get into your chair."

Dorothy disappeared around the corner again, and Dr. MacMillan, frowning, followed quickly after her, leaving Jack momentarily and mercifully alone.

Now that there wasn't anyone to demonstrate his athletic competence for, Jack lay carefully back on the cot, shut his eyes and took a deep breath, finally letting himself consider the pain in his ribs and the cramping ache that was starting up in his right leg.

He heard the door creak open and then Dorothy gasped.

"Miss Fisher," she exclaimed in surprise. "What a wonderful surprise!"

Jack's eyes flew open again, and he froze.

"Sorry I'm late, Dot," replied, undoubtedly, the low, familiar tones of Phryne Fisher as the door slammed shut again behind her. "I did try to hurry, but I'm afraid that beating the world flight record of fifteen days proved too much even for me. That's not to say that I've given up on it entirely, of course. There's always next time."

 _Phryne,_ thought Jack incredulously, struggling to get upright again.

"Not any time soon, I hope," murmured Mac. "Nice to see you, Phryne."

"Mac," replied Phryne. "I'm so glad you're here. Where's Jack? Is he all right? No, of course he isn't. That was a ridiculous question; I'm sorry. Where is he, Dot?"

A lot of things happened in Jack's head and heart, all at the same confusing time. His heart began to pound, and he was suddenly more excited than he'd been in months. At the same time, he was extremely, excruciatingly aware of what a miserable, pathetic figure he cut, crippled and helpless with his mangled leg fully exposed. 

 _Not the man she left behind,_ he thought miserably.  _I'm certainly a far cry from Miss Fisher's formerly heroic partner in crime-solving. This isn't how I wanted her to find me. I don't…I don't think I want to see her. It's probably best if she doesn't have to see me this way at all._

He half-hoped that Dr. Mac would turn her away, or that Dorothy would make some excuse for him, but at the same time, even while he knew what it would inevitably mean for him, he wanted fervently to go to her more than he wanted anything else in the world.

 _And I am not,_ he realized, abruptly and alarmingly,  _even wearing trousers._

Dorothy had helpfully draped Jack's clothes across the back of his chair for him, but she'd unfortunately left the chair a few inches too far away from the cot. He bent over as best he could and made a swipe for the chair with one arm, but he still couldn't quite reach.

"Phryne," Mac was saying, still by the door, "I'm not sure how much you know, but you need to realize that the Inspector's not in what I'd call a very pretty state right now. This is going to be a shock for you, and I want you to be prepared for it."

"I'm not easily shocked," retorted Phryne. "I'll be perfectly fine. I just need to see him, Mac. I can only imagine what a torment these past few weeks have been. Jack? Jack, where are you?"

 _Damn,_ thought Jack emphatically, his heart now aching somewhere deeper inside the ache in his ribs. Using his right leg to brace himself against the cot as best he could, Jack reached again for the chair. For a second, he had it by the handle, but then his leg gave out and he almost overbalanced. Grasping frantically at the cot with his free hand, Jack threw himself backwards and ended up on his side on the bed, breathing hard and now in significantly more pain that he had been, no closer to either his clothes or to the wheelchair.

In the process, he just managed to knock the wheelchair over, and it toppled forwards with a loud, alarming clattering sound.

Conversation by the door abruptly stopped as all three women presumably listened to the noise.

"Inspector Robinson," gasped Dorothy.

"Oh lord," muttered Mac. "What now?"

Jack heard the sounds of their rushed footsteps as they hurried back to him, but Phryne reached him first.

She ran into the room, her eyes more wild than Jack was used to seeing them. Her hair was flattened and tousled and she was still wearing her flight jacket; her helmet and goggles dangling from one hand.

Jack's confused heart tried to plummet and leap at the same time, and ended up just throbbing painfully.

He sat up again on the cot, and when his and Phryne's eyes met, for a long moment neither of them said a word.

Phryne gazed at him with her mouth slightly open, and Jack flinched at the startled pain in her eyes. 

"Oh Jack," she whispered.

"Miss Fisher," he managed breathlessly, in a hollow voice that didn't sound very much like his own.

Mac sighed.

"It's…it's not really as bad as all that," began Dorothy. "He's really been doing very well, and…and Dr. MacMillan says that the exercises are helping! I'm sure he'll be…"

She trailed off helplessly, as Phryne obviously wasn't listening. Mac said nothing at all.

Very slowly, Phryne moved to the chair, gathered up Jack's clothes, and then brought them over to the bed.

"Th-thank you." Jack coughed uncertainly, bitterly aware that he'd now lost any hope of retaining his manly dignity and grace. He felt hot and desperate under her gaze, and he hastily averted his eyes, wishing that he could have had some more warning, that he could have prepared them both a little better for the inevitable moment of let-down.

Phryne took a long, thoughtful look at Jack's left leg, not making any attempt to hide her scrutiny.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly. "Jack I'm…no. No, no, of course, sorry isn't nearly enough."

Jack was in the helpless process of trying to struggle into his trousers, which was an exceedingly difficult, almost impossible task with only one leg under his control.

Without a word, Phryne reached out and braced his left leg in both of her hands. Jack stared up at her again for a moment, his throat going dry, partially because of the truly unbearable awkwardness of the contact, but mostly because of how ridiculously surreal and dismal it was to be able to imagine her touch, but not to be able to feel it.

"Go on," she urged him, and Jack took the opportunity, using both hands to fit the trouser leg around the unresponsive limb. 

Almost immediately, Phryne released him again, and with his heart beating achingly in his chest, Jack shut his eyes again and took a deep breath.

"Thank you," he said again, clearing his throat and mastering some control over his voice. "I'm…"

He stopped, having been about to say "I'm sorry," and then realizing, just as Phryne had seconds before, that it was neither quite the right remark, nor quite enough of one.

"I warned you," muttered Mac under her breath.

Phryne just gave her an absent sort of smile.

"Dot," she suggested, turning the smile on Dorothy. "Do you know, I find that I'm a little thirsty after my fifteen day cross-country flight. I'd be ever so grateful for a cup of that tea."

"Certainly, Miss," murmured Dorothy, looking confused and a little relieved. "I'll...I'll just pour out for all of us, shall I?"

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** This is a two-part chapter, but I couldn't finish the second part just at the moment, because I really need to go to the gym before rehearsal.

I will conclude this episode (hopefully) tomorrow, after my half-day in the classroom! Hopefully that'll give me a little extra time to write, although I do have Rocky Horror in the evening, so I'll have to time manage as effectively as I can…


	9. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note:** I had a strange moment when I woke up this morning.

Today is September 12, my ex's birthday, and I remembered, and my subconscious tried to tell me that I needed to call him like I used to do, of course, every morning.

Now, mind you, this was MANY years ago, and I have no acute lingering feelings for this man…but it was also a reminder that love is something difficult to shake, which isn't nearly as transient or easily dismissed as Phryne seems to think it is.

Perhaps that inspired me to write a bit this morning.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Phryne stepped out of the room for a moment while Jack hurriedly finished dressing himself. A few minutes later, Dorothy wheeled Jack, now settled uncomfortably in his chair, into the parlor where she'd left the tea things.

"I'll just see Dr. MacMillan to the door," Dorothy murmured, pouring tea for both Phryne and Jack, "and then I'll go and get started on our lunch. After all, I'm sure you both have so many things you'd like to talk about."

Giving them each an uncertain little smile, Dorothy departed after Mac, leaving Phryne and Jack alone.

 _We certainly do have a lot to talk about,_ thought Phryne, watching the set look on Jack's face, and wondering just how much pain he was trying to cover up.  _The question is…where to begin?_

"Fifteen days," said Jack quietly, looking up and frowning at her.

Phryne shrugged.

"I was trying to break the record," he informed him, "set by Bert Hinkler earlier this year. He made it from Croydon to Port Darwin in only fifteen days…and I was planning on doing it in ten."

Jacks' eyebrows rose.

"Most people," he said, "would be satisfied with simply matching an overseas flight record."

"I'm not most people," retorted Phryne. "And besides, Jack…I had plenty of reason to want to rush. There was somewhere I needed to be…as fast as I possibly could."

She gave him a small smile, but Jack didn't return it. Instead, he just frowned contemplatively into his teacup.

"I'm very sorry," he said stiffly, "for having interrupted your vacation, in that case. If I'd known that Mrs. Collins had informed you of events, then I'd have been sure to-!"

"I'd have been furious with her if she hadn't," interrupted Phryne, frowning right back at him. "I've spent the past fifteen days miserably imagining you sitting her in your bedroom, or in some hospital somewhere, all alone, in terrible pain, nursing your wounded leg in silence and your wounded pride with shame. I couldn't bear thinking of it, Jack. All the queen's horses and all the queen's men couldn't have kept me away…and at least one of the men did try. Don't apologize, please."

Something in Jack's face twitched.

"I was starting to think," he said under his breath, not quite meeting her gaze, "that you might never come back."

Phryne opened her mouth to respond, but found that she really wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm here now," she told him finally.

Jack said nothing in response.

Phryne let out a frustrated little sigh.

"Look, Jack," she began, "I'm not going to be childish about this. I certainly won't deny that I've been avoiding you, just as I won't demand why I haven't received a single letter from you since I've been in England."

Jack coughed uncomfortably.

"Dot's absolutely right, of course," she went on. "We do have a great many things to say to one another; things, perhaps, that we should have said before. Now, however, isn't the time."

"I suppose not," muttered Jack.

"It can't be the time," Phryne went on, "because for once in our delicious partnership I refuse to be the problem that you can't solve. Right now, you need to focus on your recovery, and we'll have to put off dealing with any more complex romantic confusion until you're in a state to have the time and energy to mind other people at all."

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it again, shook his head, and swallowed, obviously frustrated.

"I'm here now," repeated Phryne quietly, "and everything's going to be all right. We'll find our way through this together…just as we always have before. I'm not going anywhere…not now."

Jack took a deep breath.

"And what, may I ask," he said, "does the great Algernon Garfield have to say about that?"

Phryne rolled her eyes.

"Probably," she turned, "the very same sort of thing that Concetta Fabrizzi would have to say if she found out that we were having tea together just outside your bedroom door. I hear," she went on, with pointed sweetness, raising an eyebrow at him, "that you'd just left Concetta, in fact, when you encountered your car trouble. How is the lovely Mrs. Fabrizzi? I certainly hope she's doing well."

Phryne looked directly into his eyes, and Jack looked startled for a moment before slowly, almost incredulous, giving her a little half-smile and a low laugh.

"Touché," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Precisely," agreed Phryne. "And that, for the moment, is where we'll leave it, I think."

Reaching for the teapot, she idly refilled Jack's cup, and then her own.

"Now," she said, a bit more seriously, "if you think you can manage it, Jack, I'd like to know exactly what happened. I heard the basics from Dot in her letter, but I'm a bit fuzzy on the details. Of course if it's too painful to talk about just yet, then you certainly-!"

"Collins and I were investigating a murder at the Premiere Playhouse theatre," Jack informed her. "One of the actors, a man named Kenneth Martin, had apparently been killed onstage during a dress-rehearsal of 'Julius Caesar.' He'd been stabbed to death, presumably by one of the other actors at the climax of the scene."

Phryne's eyes widened. "Kenneth Martin," she whispered. "How awful. I've seen him play before. He was an incredible talent."

"Certainly a great loss to the Melbourne theatrical community," agreed Jack.

"And of course," added Phryne, "he was playing Caesar."

Jack nodded.

"I'm sure," murmured Phryne absently, "that I read a story like that once…a murder mystery story, where a man was slaughtered onstage by his costar while playing Julius Caesar. How horribly life sometimes imitates art."

"I've typically found," countered Jack, "that it's art that more often imitates life. Perhaps it was your mystery author's understanding of the baser, darker parts of human nature which led him to envision the scene in the first place."

Phryne started to smile.

"And that," she said, "is exactly why you're so infatuated with William Shakespeare, isn't it, Jack? His art's said to be an excellent imitation of life…and particularly of life's darker, more tragic undertones. I suppose now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense why a police inspector would find himself so attached to an author who treats primarily in tales of chillingly human murder."

Jack shrugged.

"In any case," he went on, "in the course of our investigation, Collins and I discovered the murder weapon having been cleaned and replaced on the leading actor's dressing table."

"The noble Brutus," murmured Phryne.

"Portrayed, in this case," added Jack, "by the famous Evelyn Jackson of such recent renown in the realm of classical theater."

Phryne only nodded.

Jack took a deep breath, and as his hand drifted to his chest, Phryne winced and realized that all of this talking was probably only causing him further pain in his ribs. He was starting to look tired, as well.

"Jack," she began, but he pushed on.

"There was a backup in the lab," he informed her, gritting his teeth," and the weapon in question wasn't able to go in for fingerprinting until two days later. I took it home with me, but before I had the opportunity to return it to the lab, Evelyn Jackson decided that it would be a good idea to try running me down with his car outside of Strano's Italian restaurant. I'm certain he intended to kill me, but his driving doesn't seem to be as good as yours."

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not," murmured Phryne, frowning at him. "What a stupidly melodramatic thing to do in any case. Of course, you caught him, didn't you?"

"Collins," agreed Jack, "did catch him, yes. Jackson's been convicted on one count of premeditated murder, as well as on a second count of attempted murder on an officer of the law….and, unofficially, for the successful murder of one police officer's previously viable left leg, and probably for the subsequent death of what I daresay was becoming a promising career. He'll probably hang, and I won't pretend that I've lost any sleep over it."

 _I doubt,_ thought Phryne,  _that there's been very much sleep left to lose._

She swallowed hard, the words "attempted murder' ringing harshly in her ears.

"I'm very glad," she whispered, "that he didn't kill you, Jack. So very, very glad."

Scooting her chair a little closer to him, Phryne reached across and gently brushed her fingers along Jack's left knee. He looked startled.

"You can't feel that," asked Phryne, "can you?"

Jack only shook his head.

"Not in my knee," he said, raising a warning eyebrow.

Phryne nodded.

"All right," she said, "then how about this?"

Moving her fingers lightly up to his left thigh, Phryne watched the look on Jack's face. At first he just gazed at her with a wary sort of look in his eyes, until suddenly he sucked in a sharp breath and glanced down at her hand.

"Ah," murmured Phryne. "There. That's where the injury was, then?"

Gingerly, Jack reached down and took Phryne's searching hand in his, removing it from his upper thigh and laying it gently back down on the tea table.

"Dr. MacMillan," he informed her, clearing his throat, "has advised me not to permit myself too much excitement."

"How very disappointing," murmured Phryne, smiling at him. "Oh, well. We certainly wouldn't want to take risks with doctor's orders. I'll be good."

Slowly, hesitantly, Jack started to smile back.

In the back of her mind, however, Phryne found herself feeling oddly but soundly comforted by the fact that he'd reacted to her touch at all.

 _He's not completely paralyzed,_ she reminded herself.  _Dot said that it's only a question of part of his leg having been crushed by the car. Mac insists that, with enough work and focus, he's sure to be able to get himself up on crutches in a matter of months, and I'm sure that being able to move about more freely by himself will be a great relief to Jack. Something to look forward to, at least. I can't really imagine Jack Robinson, intrepid detective and undaunted even in the face of a superior's direct orders, being confined to quarters and unable to go where he likes. It must be hell for him, although he's doing his usual exceptional job of not showing it. I suppose it's not really that hard to imagine what must be going on in his head. The incapacity's probably driving him nearly mad._

By this time, of course, Phryne's abandoned tea had gone cold. She was just contemplating searching for the kitchen to try brewing another pot when the sound came of the front door banging open.

"Dottie," called the voice of Hugh Collins, sounding just a little bit less lively and more weary than usual. "I'm back! Sorry I'm late for lunch. Hello? Anybody home?"

Dorothy emerged from the kitchen and hurried for the door.

"Hugh," Phryne heard her call down the hallway. "You're just in time! You'll never believe who's here to visit Inspector Robinson. Goodness, your boots are dirty. Shake them off outside before you come in. We can't have you tracking mud all over someone else's carpets."

"All right, all right. Don't fuss at me, Dottie." Hugh could be heard kicking his boots aggressively against, presumably, the front step.

"Where on earth," demanded Dorothy as they made their way into the parlor, "have you been all morning?"

Hugh sighed. "You'd never believe it, Dottie," he mumbled, "but Detective Anderson's got me dragging the creek for any trace of the missing finger. I'm sure the damn thing would have been long washed away by now, assuming it had even been cut off anywhere near the creek, which I'm positive it wasn't. There's plenty of reason to believe that the murderer dumped the body in the creek AFTER slashing the poor bastard up, but of course Detective Anderson won't even consider-!"

Hugh stopped short as he and Dorothy entered the parlor, and came face to face with Jack and Phryne.

"What murder?" Jack frowned. "Mr. Appleton wasn't found in a creek. They found him hanging in the hotel bathroom. What's that got to do with a creek...and witha missing finger?"

Hugh's eyes went wide.

"I-Inspector," he mumbled, shooting a slightly doubtful glance at Dorothy. "I, uh, thought you'd be asleep, sir. And…Miss Fisher!"

"Hello, Hugh." Phryne smiled and rose to greet him, embracing him briefly before returning to her seat. "So glad to see you again…even if the circumstances are less than ideal. Dot's written all about you in her letters. She says you're turning into quite the impressive rising star at City South, not that I'd have expected anything less, of course."

"She said that?" Hugh looked startled, but hesitantly pleased. "I…well, I wouldn't say 'rising star,' exactly, Miss Fisher, but I-!"

"Collins," barked Jack. "Why the hell does Anderson have you dragging the creek?"

Hugh's face fell again, and fumbled uncertainly with the collar of his uniform.

"I, uh…I really can't, sir," he said apologetically, shooting at helpless look at his wife. "Doctor's orders, sir, remember? I've been strictly forbidden from speaking to you about the case…or about anything related to police work. You're…you really are supposed be resting. It's for your own good, Inspector, honestly!"

Jack grumbled irritably under his breath, and glared at his leg.

"Nonsense, Hugh," returned Phryne, frowning. "Poor Jack must be bored out of his mind, sitting here twiddling his thumbs while you're off committing acts of daring do down at the police station, or at the creek, as it were. I'm sure he needs to exercise his brain just as much as he needs to exercise his body. Don't you agree, Dot?"

Phryne shot Dorothy a quick, expectant look. Dorothy's eyes went wide, and she slowly shook her head.

"Dr. MacMillan really did insist, Miss," she murmured unhappily. "No unnecessary excitement. The Inspector's still got a lot of recovering to do."

"That's right," agreed Hugh hastily, running nervous fingers through his hair. "I…I really am sorry, sir, but it won't be much longer now. You just….focus on getting back into shape, all right?"

"The doctor will be back soon," remarked Dorothy, glancing up at the clock.

"Right, then." Hugh nodded. "I'll just go and get washed up for lunch. Can't stay too long; Detective Anderson's expecting me back at the station by two o'clock."

"Of course," mumbled Jack in obvious frustration, sighing under his breath. "You certainly wouldn't want to keep your superior officer waiting."

There wasn't a hint of spite or malice in Jack's voice, but Hugh turned and shot him an incredibly guilty, conflicted look just the same.

"Go on, Hugh," suggested Phryne. "I'll help Dot to lay the table."

Letting out a short, unhappy little breath, Hugh hurried off to the bathroom.

Phryne in her turn, got up and started to follow Dorothy into the kitchen.

I'll need to wash as well, of course," she said as Dorothy led her over to the two plates of neatly-cut sandwiches laid out on the counter. "I'm sure I'm covered with engine grease and atmosphere, and I probably smell appallingly."

Dorothy just shook her head.

"You smell like you've just finished having an adventure," she told Phryne. "It suits you, Miss."

"What a very poetic thing to say, Dot," murmured Phryne. "Charming of you."

Glancing over at the lunch, Phryne noticed that several of the sandwiches Dorothy had cut were Jack's favorite, which Phryne knew Dorothy herself couldn't stand.

"Thank you, Dot," she said quietly, "for everything…for both of us."

Dorothy looked surprised.

"You've always been nothing short of a blessing to me," she went on, "and I know that Jack must be just as grateful for your assistance as I've always been…even if he isn't, just at the moment, in much of a state to demonstrate it."

Dorothy flushed.

"I haven't done all that much," she insisted. "I…just couldn't bear the thought of how lonely he'd be, here at home all by himself."

"Nor I," agreed Phryne. "But I feel infinitely better now, knowing that you've been here, at least."

"The Inspector insisted, you know," Dorothy went on,"that he couldn't possibly come and stay with Hugh and I. Of course we offered several times."

Phryne nodded.

"So you decided you'd simply go to him," she said.

Dorothy shrugged. "What other option did I have, Miss Phryne? We certainly couldn't just leave him. He's always been such a good friend to us both…and such a wonderful mentor for Hugh."

"Yes," agreed Phryne softly. "Yes, we all owe a great deal to Jack Robinson. He's become an extremely important piece of our lives, hasn't he? A mainstay, perhaps. I don't suppose I can imagine this place without him, now. Of course, it's only his leg that's been injured. His melodramatic attempted murderer never got him after all…so I won't have to try imagining it."

Shivering involuntarily, Phryne moved to the sink to wash the airplane off her hands, trying to shake off her own sudden feelings of inexplicable loneliness.

 _It didn't happen,_ she reminded herself, frustrated at the irrational tricks her emotions seemed to be playing on her.  _The nightmare is over…and he's very much alive. Everything is going to be all right. Of course it will._

"Leander creek," announced Dorothy unexpectedly.

"What?" Phryne blinked at her.

Dorothy sighed.

"Hugh found the second body in Leander creek," she repeated, "just behind the hotel where they first discovered Mr. Appleton's suicide. That's what Hugh was talking about just now, Miss," when he came in."

"Oh." Phryne frowned.

"I just thought…" Dorothy paused, looking thoughtfully down at the sandwich she was in the process of plating. "Well, I thought that perhaps you might like to go and see the scene for yourself. After all, we all do know how you love a good murder mystery, and I'm quite certain that Hugh wouldn't mind just a little bit of extra, experienced unofficial help in the matter…even if he's not quite prepared to say so."

She shot Phryne a significant look, and Phryne began to smile.

"Oh, I'm quite certain," murmured Phryne, "that I'll find the time. Thank you very much, Dot. I'll be sure to make good use of the information."

* * *

**Author's End Note:**

Oof, that chapter was a bit long! Still, I enjoyed it, and I think I'm really getting a much better handle on the characters in this story.

Now, as I worked until four in the morning, I may just go back to bed for a few minutes…just a few minutes, mind you…


	10. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note:** I've got another late night at the theater tonight. Actually, it's going to be a late night at the theater pretty much every night this week and next. See, I'm performing in Christopher Marlowe's "Edward II," this weekend, so we'll be in tech rehearsals for that all week, but I also stage manage for the Rocky Horror Picture show, and that's running this weekend and all the way through the end of October.

I'm going to try to get writing done in the meantime, but what with my day job on top of that, there may be some long update gaps. I'll do my best; that I promise.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

The next morning, Dr. Mac came by at the usual time to supervise Jack's therapeutic exercises.

She was just in the process of adjusting Jack's knee joint; manually moving him through rotations of bending the knee and then relaxing it again when there was, just as before, a knock on the front door.

Jack, who had been trying not to listen for the sound of that knock all morning long, felt his heart begin beating just a little bit faster, and he had to force himself to refocus on the movements he was supposed to be putting his leg through.

"I have a feeling," muttered Mac, smiling ruefully and rolling her eyes, "that we both know who that is." She sighed. "So much for keeping you quiet and staving off too much excitement. I suppose we should just consider ourselves lucky that she didn't manage to break the fifteen-day record. We got at least a few days of peace in the meantime."

This time, Dr. Mac had taken the precaution of firmly shutting the adjoining door between Jack's temporary bedroom and the parlor.

"Inspector," called Dorothy from just outside the door. "You have a visitor, sir!"

"We know," retorted Mac, shaking her head, "but she can't have Jack until he's finished the therapy. Phryne'll have to find some way to amuse herself for at least the next twenty minutes."

On the other side of the door, Phryne laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage," she said airily. "After all, I've never been privileged enough to receive an invitation to Jack's home. I'm thrilled to have the chance for a quick look around…to see what dark secrets I can uncover."

"What?" Alarmed, Jack blinked and sat up straight on the bed. "Wait, Miss Fisher!"

"Let it go, Inspector," suggested Mac, shrugging and returning her attention and her hands to his knee. She's only teasing; she wasn't actually raised by wolves, no matter what I may think of the Baron's parenting skills. Baroness Fisher's all right, anyway. Don't let Phryne get a rise out of you. We have some work to do, here. Push your right foot a little farther down on the bed for me. There we are…"

Gritting his teeth, Jack did his best to keep his mind on his legs, and not to envision Phryne rifling, unattended, through his bathroom cabinets.

"I should really send her away, you know," remarked Mac absently. ""I probably would, too, if it weren't for the fact that ever since she swept in yesterday, you've finally started looking more like a living man than a dead one."

Jack wasn't sure how to respond to that. Uncomfortably, he cleared his throat.

"It's a nice, refreshing change," Mac went on, "but let's be clear on one point, Jack; I won't hesitate to firmly get rid of Phryne if I think it's going to impede your recovery. I'm sure even she'll understand that."

 _I certainly can't argue with that,_ thought Jack ruefully.  _I won't even try to deny that, possibly because she's such a very exciting woman, Phryne Fisher has never been what I'd call 'good' for my heart or health. Quite the contrary, most of the time, if we're being honest._

It was true, however, that even now, he felt noticeably less listless and significantly more awake and alive than he had in the days before, when he'd been repeatedly, doggedly dragging himself through the motions of therapy, forcing himself to keep carefully maintaining the façade that he was functioning normally, soldiering on because there didn't really seem to be any other reasonable options available.

As of that morning, at least, there had been something much more magically worth looking forward to…even if he knew enough to be dreading it, just a little bit, at the same time.

Something to look forward to, to care about, realized Jack, really did make all the difference.

"All right," announced Dr. Mac. "Time for a glass of water, a thirty-second break, and then we'll begin ten sets of leg lifts. Not much longer now, Jack. You're doing very well indeed. Go at it with gusto for just a bit more, and we'll have you out of here in time to keep Phryne from sleuthing her way through the second floor, at least."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you said," he demanded, "that you were sure she was only teasing."

Mac just shrugged.

"I suppose," she said ominously, "that we'll soon find out, now, won't we? All right, here we are, then. Right to left on a count of five. Ready? Very good…you can begin."

Jack shut his eyes, and firmly grasped his left leg.

* * *

Forty or so minutes later, Dr. Mac wheeled Jack out into the parlor where they found Phryne and Dorothy sitting at the table and having a chat.

"Ah, Jack!" Phryne, dressed impeccably and fetchingly, as usual, in a white blouse and a pair of well-cut forest-green slacks, rose instantly to meet them. "And Mac, of course! I take it, then, that you're finished with him? Is it my turn at last?"

She smiled at Jack, her eyes dancing, and Jack found himself almost foolishly starting to smile back.

"That depends," replied Mac sternly, "on just what exactly you have in mind, Phryne."

Phryne turned her winning smile on Mac, but Mac, usually delighted by Phryne's joie-de-vivre, now seemed to be having none of it. She raised an expectant eyebrow, and Phryne's smile faded just a little bit.

"Nothing strenuous, I promise," insisted Phryne innocently. "I just thought that, since it's such a genuinely lovely day, Jack might enjoy getting outside for a while and reveling in the fresh air. I thought we could have a little picnic lunch, in fact. Mr. Butler's packed some of his very best for us, as a sort of 'get well' present for Jack. Of course," she said, turning her attention back to Jack, "he's very much hoping that you'll come and visit us soon, as well. Jane, too, sends her love."

Mac frowned.

"And how exactly," she asked, "do you propose to get Jack to your picnic?"

Phryne shrugged. "There's plenty of space in the car for the chair," she assured Mac.

Mac instantly shook her head.

"Absolutely not," she said, with an uncompromising shake of her head. "You are not, under any circumstances, permitted to drive Jack anywhere, Phryne. In the past six weeks, he's already almost been killed by a car once. I don't feel that we need to repeat the experience."

Jack winced.

 _Tis torture and not mercy,_ he thought, absently quoting the bard in his head while remembering, unhappily, just exactly why he always avoided driving anywhere in the Hispano-Suiza.

Phryne made a face.

"And besides," Mac went on. "The way you drive, he'll be jostled and thrown about so much that it'll re-open his wounds and give him hell with his healing ribcage. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to place it absolutely out of the question. No pleading will prevail."

Phryne bit her lip, and glanced over at Dorothy, who stared fixedly into her teacup and only sighed.

"Don't look at me, Miss," muttered Dorothy. "I really can't argue with the doctor's assessment. You do drive like a fantastic fiend."

"Dot," demanded Phryne, shooting a helpless look at Jack. "Whose side, exactly, are you on?"

Mac snorted a laugh.

"We…well, we might call Cec and Bert," suggested Dorothy after a moment. "They're safe enough drivers, when they decide they want to be, and I'm sure they wouldn't mind giving the Inspector a ride over to your picnic."

Phryne's eyes lit up.

"What an excellent idea, Dot," she exclaimed, turning to smile triumphantly at Mac. "Any objections, Doctor?"

Mac looked as though she probably had several objections. She opened her mouth to protest, then shot a quick, sidelong look at Jack, pursed her lips and sighed.

"Oh, very well," she agreed. "But  _take it easy._ I'm serious when I say that over-straining would be disastrous, at this stage. Nothing strenuous, please; no wheelchair racing, and if you could let up a little on the alarming sexual tension, it would probably be better for both of your nerves in the long run...and possibly for mine as well."

Dorothy's eyes widened in surprise, and she snorted into her teacup.

Jack felt his face beginning to turn red, and he coughed to try and hide his confusion.

Only Phryne looked apparently unperturbed.

"Understood, Doctor," she said with what Jack was sure was entirely insincere meekness. "Anything else I should know not to do?"

"Yes," agreed Mac without skipping a beat. "No murders whatsoever. If you manage to find a murder of any kind, or even a petty theft while you're out enjoying your day in the sun, I swear to you, Phryne Fisher, that I will kill you both myself, and the Hippocratic Oath be damned."

"Absolutely," agreed Phryne, nodding and smiling that perfectly sweet smile. "No murders, Dr. Mac. Heard and understood…isn't it, Jack?"

Jack, looking up into Phryne's eyes, frowned.

 _We are almost certainly not going any ordinary picnic,_ he decided, giving her a very suspicious look.  _If it weren't for the fact that it's been months since I've been privileged enough to enjoy the excellent Mr. Butler's cooking, I'd probably be forced to refuse. Why do I get the feeling that we're about to set my recovery back by days at the least?_

""Jack," Phryne was asking, "would you mind if I used your telephone? I'll have to call up Cec and Bert, of course."

"They'll be delighted to see you again, I'm sure, Miss," remarked Dorothy.,

Phryne shook her head.

"I saw them both yesterday," she informed Dorothy, "when they picked me up from the airfield. I assumed that your yard would be a little too small to land a plane, in Jack, although I considered making the attempt, at first. In the end, though, I decided that I'd only lose more time if I had to circle back, so Cec and Bert came to collect me instead.

Jack was honestly surprised.

"I didn't realize," he said, "that you'd come directly from landing your plane. I…frankly assumed you'd stopped home, first. You must have been tired."

"Exhausted," agreed Phryne airily. "But I got plenty of sleep last night in my own, familiar bed, and that was a merciful treat, so this morning I'm right as rain."

She smiled again, and Jack found that he was really deeply touched by the fact that Phryne had, apparently, rushed directly from England to his doorstep.

 _Now that I think about it,_ he realized,  _Phryne was still wearing her jacket and helmet when she arrived yesterday, which really wouldn't have made sense if she'd gone home to rest and change. I'm sure she was more than just a little exhausted, after a fifteen-day overseas race to beat a world record. She didn't look tired at all, of course. The inimitable Phryne Fisher, I suppose, laughs in the face of anything as trifling as physical fatigue._

A wave of momentary resentment swept through him as he thought about how tired just talking to her over the tea table had managed to make him, and about the way his ribs and back had already started to ache just from sitting up straight in the chair.

Mac suddenly let out a low, incredulous little laugh.

"You two," she announced, smiling despite herself, "are perfectly matched, do you know that? You're both probably insane."

Phryne grinned.

"The telephone, Miss," said Dorothy helpfully, "is in the kitchen. Shall I show you?"

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** This is, of course, another two-part chapter, so I'll have to complete the second part tomorrow. I've got another long night backstage tonight, and I won't be home until long after three AM, but please feel free to leave me a note or a comment and I promise that it will brighten up my long, dark, stage-management sojourn.

And now…to the metro!

Oh, PS: I have identified several typos in the previous chapter (there may be some in this one as well.) I do try to catch them before I post, and I'm terribly sorry, but I'll go back and fix them ASAP. Thanks for being so patient with me, friends


	11. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note:** I am having, already, a very difficult day today. I woke up this morning with two big red circles on my arm, right where they give me the TB test on Friday. I'm not actually concerned that I have tuberculosis (I'm pretty damn sure that I'm not even carrying it; I've NEVER been exposed), but I am a little worried that if they decide they need more tests or analysis, I might not be able to go to my first day of teaching tomorrow. Maybe I should put some makeup over it or something…nah, that'd probably make everything worse.

By the time I upload this chapter, I'll have gone back to have the test re-evaluated, so read all the way down to the bottom of the page to find out if I'm carrying tuberculosis or not. :-p

And now, back to our story:

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

A little over an hour later, Jack and Phryne were seated on a yellow picnic blanket in the sun, alongside the otherwise deserted bank of a tiny, bubbling body of water known locally as "Leander Creek" which ran along only a few blocks behind the ancient and renowned Hotel Gaveston.

The Gaveston, usually a gaudy, popular temporary residence for newly-disembarked tourists, had recently become the scene of a rather more grisly attraction. According to Hugh, and now, of course, to the newspapers as well, the body of travling salesman John Appleton had been found hanging in his suite just after midnight only a few days before.

"Hugh," murmured Phryne, gazing thoughtfully into the ripples, "mentioned something about a missing finger…and we can safely assume, I think, that a missing finger must have come, originally, from a hand, which is most likely to have been attached to the body of a murder victim; the mysterious second 'body,' in fact, whose existence Hugh accidentally revealed yesterday at lunch. He said something, I believe, about it probably not having actually been dumped in the creek until long after the murder had taken place."

"Phryne," began Jack warningly.

"Now who," Phryne went on, frowning to herself, "could the second body belong to, I wonder? I certainly haven't seen anything in the papers lately, although I've been well out of it, hundreds of miles overseas. I don't suppose you got newspapers in the hospitals, did you, Jack? Or, no, I'm sure you didn't. Mac would have been exceedingly careful to keep any dangerous implements of overexcitement as far out of your hands as possible. She's really magnificently difficult when she wants to be. I've always admired her for it."

"Phryne," repeated Jack, a bit more firmly this time. "What are we doing here?"

"We're investigating, Jack." Phryne shrugged. "Admittedly we are both just a bit out of practice, but-!"

"Neither of us," Jack reminded her seriously, "are at present authorized to investigate anything. We are neither of us attached to this case. I am, unfortunately, on indefinite medical leave, and you-!"

"-have a client," finished Phryne, still staring into the creek. "Dot, in fact, has retained me to look into the mysterious disappearance of the unidentified finger at Leander Creek…on behalf of a certain Hugh Collins, who I think we both know is in just a little bit over his head."

Jack sighed.

"Hugh is a perfectly competent officer," he informed Phryne loyally. "I have no doubt that he's more than capable of solving this case without interference from either of us."

"I'm sure that he would be," countered Phryne, "if they were letting him solve the case on his own. I've met Inspector Anderson on more than one occasion, however, and I don't mind saying that I have zero confidence in  _his_  skills as an investigator.

Jack couldn't reasonably argue with that, and he sighed in frustration, his lower back aching as he tried and failed to find a slightly less uncomfortable position on the uneven ground.

"Admit it, Jack," chided Phryne gently. "You're bored of being limited to twenty minutes of leg lifts and to lying around the house all day. I can see it in your eyes, and I heard it in your voice yesterday at lunch. I have a feeling that a little bit of light, harmless excitement is, in fact, just exactly what you need to get back a little bit of your old spark. Besides, Hugh and Dot have been absolutely marvelous all this time, haven't they? I'm sure we owe Hugh just a little bit of help with his tricky detective situation."

"I'm sure," countered Jack quietly, "that I owe Hugh a good deal more confidence and trust than I'd be exhibiting by taking my own line on his murder investigation."

"I already explained that it's got nothing whatsoever to do with any lack of faith in Hugh," returned Phryne, shaking her head.

Jack sighed.

"You get terribly grouchy when you're hungry," said Phryne, returning her attention to the packed picnic basket settled in between them. "Perhaps we should take a break from apparently fruitless speculation about missing bodies and fingers, and see what Mr. Butler's prepared us for lunch. What do you say?"

While Phryne began rummaging through the basket and carefully removing delectably-smelling covered dish after covered dish, Jack took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself down onto his back, relaxing the over-strained muscles in his lower back and hips and scooting forward a little on the blanket to try and find a slightly less rocky place to rest the bruised-up places below his ribs.

"Tell me," suggested Phryne, uncovering a steaming bowl full of what looked as though it might, delightfully, be full of shepherd's pie, "about the murder of Mr. John Appleton. That's the case that Hugh's working on just now, isn't it? It's probably fair to assume that our mysterious missing second body has something, at least, to do with that investigation."

Jack's stomach made an alarming sort of rumbling noise, and as Phryne tried and failed to hide a smile, he cleared his throat and tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.

"As far as I know," he muttered, "Mr. Appleton claimed to be a forty-three year-old traveling salesman, most recently from America, where he'd made a name for himself in the business of diamond engagement rings. He was found by the cleaning lady in his hotel room at twelve-thirty PM on Monday night…hanging from the ceiling with torn-off strips of the curtains knotted around his neck."

Phryne winced. "Lovely."

Jack opened his mouth, then felt a twinge in his ribs and had to pause for a moment to suck in a short breath.

"Is that all?" Phryne was frowning.

"Not quite," replied Jack, shaking his head. "Try to have some patience with your tame cripple, Miss Fisher."

Phryne made a face at him.

"It seems," sighed Jack, "that when Mr. Appleton's fingerprints were analyzed, Detective Anderson discovered that 'John Appleton' was not, in fact, the man's real name."

"Oh….well that's much better." Phryne's eyes lit up. "A secret identity. Now we're getting somewhere fun."

Jack nodded.

"His real name," Jack went on, "was Marcus Wilson, and he's been trading in diamond rings for many years…but never in America. Marcus Wilson was an Australian confidence trickster, best known for selling incredibly expensive engagement rings of apparently exotic foreign make."

Phryne nodded slowly.

"I think I've heard this one before," she said, "and I'm reasonably certain I know how it ends. Although Mr. Wilson may have sold an incredibly expensive piece of jewelry, the ring that he ultimately delivers to the happy couple is  _far_  from the valuable bauble he originally promised. Probably made of paste and worthless costume stones...but very pretty, anyway."

"Exactly," agreed Jack.

"And so, of course," said Phryne thoughtfully, "there are probably quite a few people who'd want to murder Mr. Marcus Wilson. I suppose that's what gave the police the idea of murder in the first place, rather than suicide?"

"Part of the reason," said Jack. "There's also the interesting fact that absolutely none of Marcus Wilson's fingerprints were found on the chair that he supposedly stood on to hang himself. It was lying knocked-over on the floor of the bedroom, but Wilson himself doesn't appear to have touched it."

"Very suspicious," agreed Phryne, nodding. "Unless, of course, he hung himself wearing gloves. He didn't, did he? That does seem unlikely."

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well," began Phryne, "we seem to know plenty about our first victim, which gives us something to go on, at least. Actually, I think it's very suggestive. He was a con-man…and a thief. Do you know, Jack, that there are some rather thrillingly barbarous places elsewhere in this world where thievery is punished…by the cutting off of the culprit's finger? In some cases, they cut off the entire hand…or so Algie tells me."

 _Algie,_ thought Jack unhappily, choosing to focus on a familiar misery, rather than to allow himself to envision the gruesome sacrifice of the digits of foreign thieves, which suddenly felt disgustingly personal.

"Our second victim," murmured Phryne, "seems to have been deprived of a finger…deliberately, if I read Hugh's ramblings right."

"You think," returned Jack, taking a steadying breath, "that this 'second body' may have belonged to a thief, then. Maybe an associate of Mr. Wilson's."

Phryne shrugged.

"It's possible," she said. "It's somewhere to start, in any case. Did Marcus Wilson have any known associates in the line of jewel thievery? Anyone he's alleged to have colluded with in his previous life as a trickster?"

Jack frowned.

"Honestly," he muttered, "I have no idea. I haven't had good access to the police records in weeks, and so I-!"

"Oh, well," sighed Phryne. "I suppose we'll just have to ask. Excuse me!"

Suddenly jumping to her feet, Phryne turned to face an elderly woman who had apparently, emerged from around the corner and was now making her way towards them down the bank. As Phryne called out for her, the woman stopped, looking surprised.

"Yes, dear?" The woman frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Well…not exactly," began Phryne, shaking her head and pursing her lips into a frustrated sort of frown. "This…well, I know this is going to seem like a terribly impertinent question, but you don't happen to be staying at the Gaveston Hotel, do you?

The elderly woman's eyes narrowed a bit.

"I am," she said. "Why on earth do you ask?"

"Oh, you are." Phryne shot a quick wink at Jack over her shoulder. "Well, you see, miss, my husband and I were just thinking of taking a holiday-at-home, you know, a sort of rest week to clear our heads and calm our nerves, and we'd heard such marvelous things about service at the Gaveston that I was nearly ready to sign us up for several days in one of the suites. It's only…"

She paused dramatically, frowned, and then shook her head.

Jack, amused by the performance despite himself, found that he had to stifle the urge to smile.

"Well, we've heard," said Phryne, lowering her voice and leaning in conspiratorially to the elderly woman, "that there was a murder at the hotel only a few nights ago…and that now, there's been y a  _second_  murder right here, perhaps in this very spot! My husband Jack lost the use of his leg in the war, you see, and-!"

Jack glanced down in some surprise at his dead leg.

"-and it was a terribly traumatizing experience of course," Phryne went on glibly. "He's really got a horror of any bloodshed, nowadays, and we've been trying to so hard to find a nice, peaceful spot away from everything to settle ourselves into for a few days. I really can't imagine that we could spend even a minute at the Gaveston if it's turned into a den of thieves and murderers. What if there's an incident during our stay? Hardly a relaxing experience for poor Jack. He'd be all up night with terrors. Don't you see?"

"Hardly," agreed the woman, giving Jack a long, newly sympathetic look that Jack, uncomfortably, wasn't at all sure he wanted or deserved.

"What I suppose I'm really trying to ask you, Miss," Phryne finished, sighing to herself, "is whether or not you know if the rumors about the hotel are true. If it's all just talk and morbid nonsense, then there's no reason for us to have any further concerns, but if-!"

"I'm afraid," interrupted the old woman, shaking her head solemnly, "that it's all perfectly true. Lord knows what this country is coming to, when two young men can be slaughtered in a matter of as many days, and the police still don't seem to be doing a thing about it."

Jack coughed.

"I was under the impression," he said quietly, "that the first incident was ruled a suicide, rather than a murder."

"Oh, well, it  _was,_ " agreed the woman, now obviously warming eagerly to her subject, "but that was before they found poor Mr. Dormer's body floating right here, in this very creek! That was when we all knew that the first murder had been…well, just that. A murder. Someone  _must_  have killed that poor man in 314. After all, who has ever heard of a serial case of suicide?"

 _I have,_ thought Jack.  _We saw a lot of that, not long after the war ended._

"How absolutely horrible," murmured Phryne convincingly.

"Isn't it, dear?" The woman shook her head mournfully. "I tell you, this is turning into some kind of a haunted place. You take that dashing veteran husband of yours and get as far away as you can…there aren't any pleasant vacation weeks to be found here, I assure you. I'd have gone myself as soon as I could, if it hadn't been for my daughter's wedding, and then the trouble with the pipes at our old house, and now of course, you see, I can't possibly!"

"Mother!" From somewhere farther up the bank, a young woman's voice rang out. "Mother, where are you? It's getting cold, Mother, and we're heading back! Where've you gone to?"

"Oh, she's calling for me," said the woman, turning instantly on her heel. "I'd best be getting along."

"You've been ever so helpful," murmured Phryne. "Thank you so much. Good luck with the pipes."

"And good luck with your restful vacation, my dear," replied the woman cordially.

Phryne and Jack both watched as, slowly but surely, the elderly woman made her way up the bank to where Jack could now see a large woman in a pink spotted dress standing with her hands planted impatiently on her hips.

"Dashing veteran husband," muttered Jack, raising an eyebrow.

Phryne shrugged.

"Well, you're both," she reminded him. "Everything but the husband, I mean."

"I did not, however, lose my leg in the war," retorted Jack. "That woman looked at me like I as some kind of combat hero."

"But you are, Jack," insisted Phryne, settling herself back on the blanket beside him. "All right, you may not have sustained your injuries overseas, but you've certainly spent years fighting a kind of war at home; keeping us safe from the monsters that haunt the streets of Melbourne."

She lowered her voice a little and adopted a slightly more theatrically tone as she spoke about "the monsters of Melbourne," but when jack looked at her, he saw that there was a certain serious sincerity behind the laughter in her eyes.

"You were injured in the line of duty," she said quietly, "one way or another. You're every inch the definition of a hero, Jack Robinson, although I suppose in the end that's little compensation for the damage done."

Jack just shook his head, not at all sure he wanted to be any kind of "hero."

"And I believe," Phryne went on, more brightly, "that a man as heroic as the one I've just described has earned himself a hearty portion of Shepherd's pie. I know that Dot's make is your favorite, but she learned everything she knows about Shepherd's pie from Mr. Butler, so I'm sure you won't be disappointed."

As Phryne began spooning the contents of the dish onto a large plate, Jack glanced off in the direction that the woman and her daughter had gone.

"Dormer," he muttered.

"Yes," agreed Phryne. "Ring any bells?"

 _No,_ thought Jack, shaking his head.  _Unfortunately, no bells at all._

"She sounded as though she'd known him personally," he said aloud, perhaps more to himself than to Phryne. "A member of the hotel staff, maybe?"

Reaching over, Phryne offered Jack an arm, and gently, firmly helped him upright again before passing him the plate.

"Maybe," she agreed, smiling. "I'm sure it'll be easy enough to find out….but after lunch, I think."

Jack shifted his weight, trying to ease the ache in his back and the dull sensation that had started at the base of his now over-used right leg. His head had begun to throb dully as well, probably due to the sunlight that he hadn't seen much of in days, or from the fact that he'd now spent longer awake in a single a stretch than he'd done ever since returning from the hospital.

"Jack," murmured Phryne.

Jack looked over at her, and for some reason she wasn't smiling anymore.

"You're in pain," she said. "I'm sorry. We've overdone it after all, haven't we?"

Ashamed of himself for so obviously beginning to struggle after only a few sedentary hours out of the house, Jack cleared his throat and did his best to sit up a little straighter, wincing as he did so and eliciting a sharp look from Phryne.

"It's nothing," he assured her, half-heartedly, aware that it was too late to try and fool her.

Phryne only shook her head.

"Tomorrow," she said, a bit ore gently, "we'll investigate the hotel staff. I think we've both had enough excitement for one day."

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** Okay, so, apparently this is actually a THREE part chapter. Sorry about that. I still have one more section to write, but again I have rehearsal, so I'll have to finish it up tomorrow. Terribly sorry for the drag on this one, friends. Thank you, as always, for your patience.

Oh, and if you were worried, it turns out that I did manage to test negative after all for tuberculosis, so I will get to teach tomorrow after all! Huzzah!


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note:** Extremely long day few days. Always is, when you have a new class of fourteen screaming, sobbing, desperately miserable three year olds who have just been left alone in a mysterious, brave new world by mommy for the very first time ever.

Last night I would have written, except that G and I ended up taking our good friend Ava to the hospital and staying there with her overnight.

(She's okay, don't worry! Everything turned out all right.)

But I've been a little too bleary and tired to write anything even remotely passable.

I need a drink. I might just have one, after rehearsal. For the moment, though, let's see if I can write the angst out of my system.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

The afternoon wore on as Jack and Phryne sat together by the creek on their picnic blanket, waiting for Cecil Yates and Albert Johnson to return with the cab to carry them home. Phryne had unearthed a deck of playing cards from the bottom of her picnic basket, and she and Jack were now beginning their third rousing round of intensely high-stakes poker, with a plate of Mr. Butler's best buttered scones standing between them in place of poker chips.

At least, it  _had,_ once, been a full plate of scones. There was now only one single scone remaining on the plate, and the tension in the air, with the last scone hanging in the balance, had reached a fraught extreme.

Phryne glanced briefly down at her cards and then looked up at Jack, gazing intently at him with only the very hint of a challenging smile in her eyes.

Jack raised an eyebrow at her, slightly annoyed and yet somehow intrigued by the fact that he still couldn't quite make out when she was bluffing and when her confidence was genuine.

"Go on, Jack," murmured Phryne.

"I would hate," returned Jack, "to deprive you of that last scone."

"You've been gazing hungrily at it for the past twenty minutes," retorted Phryne. "Don't let your gentlemanly delicacy get in the way. If you think you can win it from me, then I'll happily cede the dessert. If you aren't confident, however…" She grinned at him. "Well, I might be willing to share it with you, if you ask very, very nicely."

Jack just smiled and shook his head, then laid his hand down on the blanket so that Phryne could see it.

Much to Jack's amusement, Phryne's eyes went wide and she looked genuinely impressed.

"Four fours," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Really, Jack, if I'd had any idea just how good you were at this game, I'd have suggested something simpler, like Go Fish."

Placing her own hand face-up on the blanket, Phryne gave it a rueful sort of look. It consisted of two sixes, a king, and a queen.

"Bad luck," said Jack, stifling a smile.

Phryne rolled her eyes at him.

"Spare me your pity," she said, sighing dramatically and passing him the plate with the final scone on it. "Nobody likes a sore winner, Jack."

"I assure you, Miss Fisher," replied Jack, snagging a knife from the basket and carefully cutting the scone as well in half as he reasonably could, "I shall be gracious in my triumph."

The cards were momentarily abandoned as Jack and Phryne finished off, severally, the last two pieces of buttered scone.

Jack's back was now aching terribly, and he was starting to feel far dizzier than he cared to admit, probably from the combination of exhaustion and the rising tide of discomfort in his ribs.

"I'm sure Cec and Bert will be here soon," murmured Phryne, frowning. "If they don't show up in ten minutes, then I'll go over to the hotel and telephone from there. Of course, I may not have to. We've been out so long, now, that Mac and Dot are likely to be having hysterics. No doubt they've already contacted Cec and Bert to demand some proof that we're still in the land of the living….or that you are, at least."

Jack frowned.

"We've disobeyed just about every one of the good doctor's orders," he reminded her, shaking his head. "I'm so stuffed with Mr. Butler's excellent fare that I think we've no choice but to accept that my stomach is struggling with some exceptionally 'strenuous activity.'"

Phryne laughed.

"We've investigated not one murder," she added, "but two; unless we're still considering Mr. Appleton's death a suicide. I suppose, as we're technically looking into the various diamond ring thefts as well, in connection with the murder case, that we're guilty of at least three counts of disobedience to poor Mac. Now, what was the last thing that she insisted we absolutely weren't to do?"

Something softened in the back of Phryne's eyes, and Jack found felt his breath inexplicably catch in his throat.

Taking a deep breath, he lowered himself back down onto the blanket, shutting his eyes for a moment and trying to dismiss the pain.

A moment later, something soft and tickly brushed past his face. Phryne sighed, and Jack opened his eyes to find that she was now lying on the blanket very close beside him, still smiling softly.

Uncertainly, Jack raised one arm, and Phryne snuggled up against him, nestling her body into the crook of his arm and resting her head gently on his chest. Jack found that he was suddenly struggling to breathe normally for a reason totally unrelated to pain or even the pressure of Phryne's weight on his injured ribs.

"Jack," murmured Phryne, "is this all right? Does it hurt?"

 _Yes,_ thought Jack,  _it does hurt, and no…it's definitely not all right. Not good for my heart at all._

"No," he said aloud, clearing his thoat. "It doesn't hurt."

"Liar," whispered Phryne, shaking her head at him. Readjusting herself, she moved her head off of his chest, relieving the pain a bit. She kept her body, however, pressed confusingly against Jack's side, and Jack let his arm continue to rest around her shoulders.

Phryne shut her eyes, and for a moment they lay there together in what became a bizarrely peaceful moment in the midst of Jack's throbbing internal chaos. Leander creek bubbled and gurgled placidly along beside them, and Jack suddenly felt and heard the lines of an old poem bubbling up in the back of his mind, conjured up, probably, by the creek, the scene, and the complicated rush of familiar but frustrating feelings.

"Both robbed of air," heard himself whisper, "we both lie on one ground; both whom one fire had burnt, one water drowned."

Phryne popped one eye open and gave him a quizzical look.

"It's…a poem by John Donne," he said quietly, feeling a little foolish and not totally sure why he'd suddenly felt it necessary to start quoting aloud the love poetry that usually and mercifully confined itself to his secret thoughts. "The poem is called "Hero and Leander.'"

"Oh," said Phryne, nodding. "Just like the creek."

"That's right," agreed Jack. "Both the creek and the poem are named, I presume, after the ancient Greek myth of the lovers, Hero and Leander."

Phryne made a wry face.

"Let me guess," she said. "They probably died tragically somehow…eaten by bears, perhaps, or murdered by their own fathers for disobedience, or something of the sort."

"Leander," Jack corrected her, "drowned in the river. I believe Hero threw herself from a tower in despair when she heard news of his death."

"Of course she did," sighed Phryne, rolling her eyes. "I knew it. Why on earth aren't there any timeless love stories where the lovers in question actually do live happily ever after? Or at least, couldn't they live happily for a few dramatically magical months before going their separate ways in an attitude of mutual respect and good wishes? I'm sure that love isn't actually supposed to be about nothing but misery and meaningless sacrifice."

"The course of true love," returned Jack simply, "never did run smooth."

"You're an absolute compendium of quotes today," said Phryne, "aren't you, Jack?"

Jack only shrugged.

"Do you know," she went on casually, frowning to herself, "I went out of my way to try and experience the bard while I was in England. I thought you'd appreciate that. I even went to what was apparently a fantastic production of 'Romeo and Juliet;' a play that you know I've never been able to stand. Of course, I know how much you like it."

"Not my favorite of Shakespeare's works," replied Jack, "but the imagery in the language is worth noting."

"I suppose so," agreed Phryne with bad grace. "I suppose that years and universities full of literary historians can't all be completely wrong about it being a perfectly magnificent play. Perhaps I'd have enjoyed it more if you'd been there to explain to me just exactly why I should have been enjoying it."

Jack cracked a smile.

"I wish I had been there," he said.

Phryne glanced up at him with an unreadable look in her eyes that made Jack's heart begin beating just a bit too fast again.

"So do I," she murmured. "There were so many things in England that I felt I wanted to show you...things that might have been much more fun if I could have shared them."

Jack coughed.

"Mr. Garfield," he began, but Phryne only shook her head.

"It wasn't Algie that I wanted to share them with, Jack," she said quietly. "He wasn't enough."

There was so much complicated sentiment in that single, simple statement that for a moment, Jack wasn't quite sure what to say. Phryne was still watching him with that intense look in her eyes, and as Jack's heart throbbed in his chest he became suddenly and somewhat belatedly aware that the potentially romantic moment was getting away from him.

"Phryne," he began a bit hoarsely.

"Jack," replied Phryne, raising an eyebrow.

Jack, who had yet to come up with anything to add to his first statement, took a quick breath, tightened his arm around Phryne's shoulders, and then uncomfortably leaned down, ignoring as best he could the searing in his ribs as he bent boldly in to kiss her.

Her reaction was a gratifying one. She shut her eyes and leaned eagerly and instantly into the kiss, murmuring with pleasure, which somehow relieved Jack and made him feel even more lightheaded at the same time.

The kiss couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but when Jack finally, reluctantly released Phryne's lips she lay in his arms for an extra moment with her eyes still closed before sighing contentedly and slowly sitting up again.

"Jack," she whispered. "I thought we'd agreed that we were going to wait to make things any more confusing until after you'd recovered from your injuries. This can't be the right time."

Jack only shook his head.

"There won't ever be a right time," he muttered, his heart sinking again as the ecstasy of the contact began to wear off and reality settled firmly and coldly in, the way it always did.

"Don't be sour," began Phryne. "We-!"

"My injuries," interrupted Jack, avoiding her eyes and staring fixedly down at his leg, "aren't going to fully heal, Phryne. Things won't ever be the way they were before."

Phryne shook her head at him, looking sympathetic, but Jack pressed doggedly on.

"Since the moment I met you," he said seriously and quietly, "I have been running to try and keep up. You're an infuriating whirlwind, Miss Fisher. Until now, I've just barely been able to maintain your pace."

Slowly, the smile in Phryne's eyes began to fade, and she started looking less gently sympathetic and more confused and alarmed.

"It seems," mumbled Jack, forcing out the words, "that I've lost the race at last. There won't be any more car chases, Phryne; no more fast-paced, late nights stalking the criminal through the streets of Melbourne, ignoring official procedure in favor of taking our own, more dramatically effective line. No more staying out at parties until three in the morning…no more money to spend frivolously on dinners and dancing. No more dancing, in fact, of any kind."

Again he shot a vicious look at his leg.

Phryne's lips parted as though she was going to speak, but then she shook her head, apparently thinking better of it.

"I can't move on my own," he reminded her. "I'll never again lead a police investigation. I've lost my job, my leg, and my independent function, Phryne, and I can't kid myself into believing that you're the kind of woman who could ever fall for a man who confines himself to sitting at home and making deductions from the safety of an armchair…Mycroft Holmes, instead of Sherlock."

He smiled bitterly, and Phryne only continued watching him in silence.

Despite the fact that Jack knew every single word he'd said was true, he was half-hoping, half-praying that Phryne would deny it; that she'd insist that he wasn't being fair, or that she wasn't nearly as fickle and flighty a woman as he seemed to think. He wouldn't have believed her if she had said it, but, perversely, he wanted to hear her protests nonetheless, if only to prove that it all mattered as much and as deeply to her as it did to him.

Instead, after a long, terrible silence, Phryne only slowly shook her head.

"I will never," she whispered, "make you any false promises, Jack. I couldn't make you a promise that I'm not sure I could keep. It wouldn't be fair…and it wouldn't be honest. I want you and I always to be honest with one another. Anything else wouldn't feel at all like us."

Jack nodded once, swallowing hard. The lack of a denial hurt more than he'd expected it to, even though he'd been ready and waiting for it.

Phryne, at least, looked equally and uncharacteristically pained, and all the merriment that had been in her eyes was gone.

"But please," Jack," she insisted fervently, "don't give up. You can't ever allow yourself to give up….for both our sakes."

Jack wasn't honestly certain what she meant, or what she expected him not to give up on. He couldn't tell if Phryne was admonishing him for giving up on himself, or pleading with him not to give up on her.

While he was frowning at her, trying not to read too much into that sadness in her eyes and wondering if the rights words even existed, there came the obnoxious sound of a car horn from somewhere up the road behind them.

Neither Jack nor Phryne moved or even looked over their shoulders.

"Cec and Bert are here at last," murmured Phryne. "Time to get you home and back into bed, Jack…in preparation for another triumphant day tomorrow."

Jack just nodded, too full of complicated, hopeful misery to say a word.

Phryne got to her feet, and turned to retrieve the wheelchair.

"At least now," she remarked with a little sigh, wheeling the chair around to where Jack sat up, waiting, "we've really broken all three of Mac's rules. We never do anything in half measures, do we, Jack?"

* * *

**Author's End Note:**

I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I want to crawl back into bed and cry. That is not a viable option. I suppose I will work on these lines instead.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note:** Second performance of Edward II tonight t 8:30. I'm running a drama workshop at a nursing home this morning, but after that I should have some time to write, so hopefully I can finish this chapter…or maybe even two, if I get my workout done early. Here's hoping!

This week would be a bad week for me to have an episode, so maybe I should try to fit some sleep in there, as well.

I can be delightfully irresponsible with my neurological health next week, though. Next week, I won't have ANY late nights! Huzzah!

...but then the week after that I have Rocky Horror every night all the time. Hmm. 

In the meantime, here's a chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Much later that evening, Jack was sitting up in the kitchen when Hugh dragged himself in the front door.

Hugh looked exhausted, and he was muttering unintelligibly under his breath as he stopped to dutifully wipe his boots on the mat that Dorothy had installed there for the purpose before stumbling into the kitchen.

"Late night, I see," remarked Jack. "You must be tired."

Hugh started and glanced over at Jack in surprise.

"Oh, uh, sir," he muttered. "Didn't see you there. Actually, I…sort of assumed you'd be in bed, by now."

Jack scowled.

"I do occasionally," he reminded Hugh, "do things other than sleep."

"Not at first, sir," replied Hugh shrugging. "I mean…when you first got here, with all due respect, you were pretty much out cold most of the time. It's nice to see you looking more like yourself again, sir. It really is."

Hugh smiled, which somehow managed to further pronounce the dark circles under his eyes.

"If you don't mind, uh," sighed Hugh, "I'll just go and collect Dot, and we'll head home. Back in the morning, bright and early, of course. Try to get some sleep, sir, all right? Oh, uh, and don't forget your glass of water with your medicine. Did Dottie get you that already?"

 _You're burning the candle at both ends, Collins,_ thought Jack.  _Staying out late at night, doing lord-knows-what on Anderson's orders, and then getting up at the crack of dawn so that you and Mrs. Collins can waste your time taking pity on a cripple. Hardly seems fair._

"You can't drive home in your condition," muttered Jack, shaking his head.

"What?" Hugh blinked. "Um…I'm fine, really."

Hugh straightened up and did his best to look alert. For a moment, Jack had a sense of how ridiculous he himself must have sounded every time he assured Mac or Dorothy that really, he was doing 'just fine' despite the exhaustion and the pain.

"No, you're not 'fine,' Constable," returned Jack simply. "You obviously haven't slept. You're not in any fit state, at the moment, to drive a motorcar. You'd be much better off staying here for the night, and for once getting enough rest to make a fresh start in the morning. I'm sure that Dr. MacMillan would agree with my diagnosis."

"I'm not the patient, sir," mumbled Hugh.

"Let's do our best to keep it that way," retorted Jack. "You're a lot more likely to become one if you don't start taking more care."

Hugh hastily shook his head.

"Uh, no, Inspector," he said hurriedly. "I…I mean, that's very nice of you, but I'm sure I couldn't-!"

"There's an empty bedroom on the second floor," continued Jack, ignoring Hugh's protests. "Since I obviously won't be making use of it, I don't see any reason why you and Mrs. Collins shouldn't get some well-deserved rest. There may, I'm afraid, be a few stray pieces of dirty laundry lying around, but if you think that you can convince Mrs. Collins to contain her well-honed instincts enough to keep from tidying up, then you're welcome to the bed for as long as you need it."

Hugh swallowed.

"I…" He paused, looking for a moment as though he was going to try arguing again. Before he had a chance to go on, however, Hugh yawned hugely, and only barely managed to stifle it with a hand, looking uncomfortable, distinctly embarrassed, and still deeply weary.

"Go get some sleep," said Jack quietly. "That's an order, Constable."

Hugh's shoulders slumped, and he looked honestly a bit relieved.

"I…yes, sir," he sighed. "I suppose I could just…well, for a few minutes, maybe. Uh, goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Collins." Jack nodded at Hugh, and then watched as Hugh dragged himself to the staircase and started up towards Jack's old bedroom.

 _There's something else going on here,_ realized Jack, frowning to himself.  _Hugh's got plenty of stamina. We've worked countless cases in the past which have had him working late nights, and I've never seen him this out of sorts before…at least, not since that trouble with his mother, and his bid for promotion half a year ago. I'd be willing to bet that it's not just the Appleton investigation keeping him up at night…_

"Time for bed, Inspector," announced Dorothy, hurrying into the kitchen. "I'm so sorry; I really didn't realize how late it was until just now. I've been distracted waiting for Hugh, I suppose. You must be tired."

She took control of Jack's wheelchair and steered him out into the hallway.

"Mrs. Collins," demanded Jack as they made their way towards the bedroom. "I don't suppose you know what exactly it is that Anderson has Collins out doing so regularly in the middle of the night?"

Dorothy only shook her head.

"Oh, I'm sure it isn't Anderson," she explained. "Detective Anderson goes home every day at five o'clock, no matter what's finished and what's left to do. Without Hugh, I'm honestly not sure how he'd get a single case solved. No, I'm sure it's one of the others that's been keeping Hugh out until all hours. I highly doubt Detective Anderson could be bothered to take enough notice of the case."

She shook her head, obviously irritated, but Jack just raised an eyebrow at her.

"One of the others?" He frowned. "What 'others?''

Dorothy blinked, froze for a moment, stopping the wheelchair, and then sighed, rubbing at her eyes with one hand.

"Oh," she murmured. "I…oh dear. I suppose Hugh's not the only one who's starting to get a little tired. It doesn't matter, Inspector. It's not-!"

"It absolutely does matter," countered Jack firmly. "What exactly did you mean, Mrs. Collins, by 'the others? What is Hugh getting himself into?"

Dorothy shut her eyes for a moment, then let out a quick breath.

"Well," she reasoned, probably more with herself than with Jack, "you're going to find out eventually, so I don't suppose there's very much point in trying to keep it a secret."

Jack waited expectantly.

"Hugh," sighed Dorothy, "is trying to start a petition, sir, at the police station. He's determined to get a signature from every Detective on the local force, so that he can try and impress the commissioner at the end of the month with 'the force of Melbourne's unanimous opinion.' I'm afraid that some of the other Detectives have been taking merciless advantage of Hugh's position. They have him doing all sorts of chores, unpleasant jobs and little undesirable tasks just to win their signatures."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

"They should all be ashamed of themselves, really, using a fellow officer like that," she muttered. "Hugh's a far more patient man than I'd ever be."

 _I'm certain that's not true,_ thought Jack, frowning up at her.  _Any woman, Mrs. Collins, who could work with Miss Fisher for as many years as you did must be half-constructed of patience._

"And what kind of petition, exactly," asked Jack, afraid that he already had an inkling of the answer, "is Hugh working on so intently?"

Dorothy hesitated a moment before replying.

"He's…it's a petition to reinstate you in the force, Inspector Robinson," she murmured eventually. "On the City South payroll…as an 'investigational consultant,' I think."

Jack swallowed hard.

"He doesn't have to do that," he began quietly, but Dorothy firmly shook her head.

"Of course he does," she returned. "You'd do the same for him in a moment, if roles were reversed, and we all know it. Besides, it would be good for the police force, don't you think? You're the best Detective that City South has ever had…and Hugh's not the only one to think so. I think so, too."

Jack smiled, but only shook his head.

"I'm flattered," he told her, "but you're a bit biased, Mrs. Collins."

"I certainly am biased," agreed Dorothy, a little more hotly than usual. "I'm biased because I know you, Inspector, and I know that you're the kind of man who'd send a disheveled, over-worked constable off to bed instead of keeping him out to all hours, doing the nasty, unpleasant jobs that you'd rather not handle yourself. Miss Phryne and I firmly agree that it takes more than just talent and good deductive skills to make someone a good detective. You've also got to be a decent human being."

With that, she wheeled Jack over to the bed, and then stepped back.

"I'll leave you to get changed, Inspector," she told him, "but I'll be right outside the door if you need any help. Of course, if you'd rather have a man's assistance, Hugh's just upstairs. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if he's already asleep by now."

* * *

Meanwhile, at the Fisher residence, Phryne and Mac were sharing a drink in the parlor.

"No," Mac was saying, "I'm afraid that Jack's absolutely right. He has a refreshingly realistic view of his own condition, which I have to say is a relief and probably a lot healthier for him in the long run."

"There's really no chance, then," asked Phryne, "of him ever walking again?"

Mac shook her head.

"Not a hope in heaven," she said firmly. "Oh, he'll be up on his legs…or rather, on his leg again. We'll almost certainly be able to transfer him to crutches when he's strong enough, but that won't be enough for fast-paced police work. It'll be slow and ungainly movement, and he'll get exhausted much faster and more easily, although I think you can look forward to him developing some absolutely delicious upper-body muscles, once his chest and back injuries have finished healing."

Phryne glanced down thoughtfully into her half-full champagne glass.

"Well then," she murmured, "what is he going to do?"

Mac sighed.

"That," she admitted, "I really don't know. Of course, if he'd been injured in the war, then they'd already have been able to make some provision for him. I've never understood why we don't give as much attention and care to the rest of our disabled population as we do to our disabled veterans. You don't have to be a war hero to have enough value to deserve a helping hand….and there are plenty of small business owners that agree with me. No doubt we'll be able to find Jack something to keep his head above water and keep him from being idle. The fact that he's been a policeman will certainly sway some people in his favor…and others against, I suppose."

"No," murmured Phryne. ""That's not good enough. I can't really imagine Jack working on an assembly line, or peeling oranges at the fruit stand, can you, Mac? It would break his proud heart. He'd give up completely...if he hasn't already."

"He hasn't given up," returned Mac. "Don't sell the man short. Jack Robinson is a far more resilient man than I think I gave him credit for, before. I've seen plenty of people lose hope in situations like these, but there hasn't been a morning yet but that I've arrived to find that Jack was up before me, waiting to get started on his rehabilitation routine. I haven't given him a single task or challenge that he hasn't tried to complete, and Dot says that he's been exemplary about his treatments and all of his medications."

Phryne brightened up a bit at that.

"That's wonderful," she said.

"It's only you, Phryne, that he's given up on," finished Mac, shrugging.

The smile died away on Phryne's lips.

"You can't really blame him for that, can you?" Mac frowned. "I told you, his outlook's perfectly realistic. I know that it's thrilling, right now, and almost glamorous to devote yourself to caring for a sick man. That's always the way it is at the beginning, when someone gets sick and their loved ones flock to comfort them. The difference in this case is that Jack isn't going to get better. What happens when you get bored of playing nursemaid, and when the fun of caring wears off? There are millions of healthy, whole men in the world, Phryne, who'd be much more your style and speed. Jack Robinson doesn't have what you want, anymore. He's perfectly right to understand that this game is over."

For a long moment, Phryne said nothing.

"I'm being harsh," admitted Mac, "but I think you need to hear the truth, for his sake and for yours. The worst thing that you could do right now would be to lead him on. Let him come to terms with who he is, now, and who he's going to have to learn to be. He's going to get there, with or without you. He may get there faster if he doesn't have a relapse of loving you that he'll have to recover from."

Phryne sighed.

"All I've wanted," she said quietly, "for months, now, has been to see Jack."

"Then why," demanded Mac, "did you stay away for so long?"

Phryne made an impatient gesture with one hand.

"Because I wanted to prove to myself that I could," she said. "Because I didn't want to need to see Jack…and because I wanted to find out just how much I wanted him. I thought maybe if I could just remember how much fun I could have without him, how little I needed him that he and I might be able to go back to the way things were before, when we were having a ball together without all this baggage dragging us down into dangerous waters."

Mac made a half-sympathetic, half-derisive little noise in her throat.

"I take it," she said, "that it didn't work."

Phryne just shook her head.

"I saw him in the crowd, once," she admitted, "at a magic show in London. Of course, it wasn't actually him. It was just some plainclothes policeman out with his girl, but I  _wanted_  it to be Jack. I wanted him to be a face in every crowd in the city…and I suppose that's evidence enough. I think I've got it very bad, Mac, and I can't seem to shake it. It's serious, now, in a horrible way that it' hasn't been truly serious in a long time, and I-!"

"Stop," suggested Mac. "You'll only make both of you miserable if you keep this up. It's a bit too late for romantic realizations, now."

"I can't accept that," murmured Phryne, shaking her head. "It's never too late."

Mac just sighed.

"Well," she said, placing her drink down on the table and getting up from the sofa. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Phryne escorted Mac out to the front door, where Mac collected her coat and headed out into the night.

After Mac had gone, Phryne climbed the stairs to her own bedroom, opened the top drawer of her jewelry case, and pulled out the shiny, gold-painted sheriff's badge that Jack had once claimed to have been 'saving for Buffalo Bill.'

She sat on the bed for a long time with the badge in her hands, frowning down at it in the darkened room with the stars twinkling dully through the window.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** This was a slow-paced chapter, but I think it could be easily entitled "Everybody thinks Jack is pretty cool."

Next chapter, Jack and Phryne make further triumphant attempts to move forward with their lives, and the angst is temporarily relegated to the backburner. Huzzah!


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's Note:** Well, unfortunately I didn't finish my workout early, and so I'm writing this chapter on Sunday morning, instead of last night. Terribly sorry, loves. I'll try to be better about sticking to my schedule; I really will.

Now, it has come to attention, unfortunately, that I need a new handle. The pen name "Ari Moriarty" has been found out by several of my coworkers through a misplaced piece of mail, and so I can't use that name anymore to serve as effective workplace protection.

Subsequently, I will need to change my handle. I'm going to keep my first name, Ari (because it's my actual first name) but I'm switching up the last name.

Which of the following do you all prefer? (Extra points if you can tell me which famous literary character each potential new handle is referencing!)

Arielle O'Shaughnessy

Ari Bonner

Ari Baskerville

Arielle Troy

Ari Alleyn

Ari Vetinari (Okay, I threw that one in for fun. I'd never get away with actually using it.)

Any thoughts, friends? I know this seems silly, but it's actually super important, especially for teachers, to keep the net identity and the real world identity safely separate, these days. Of course, the name I use for stage is totally different from both my net handle and my real name. I could tell you stories of terrible things that have happened to teachers who have let their students and/or class parents find out that they do such shocking, unpardonably scandalous things as writing fanfiction, or performing in stage plays. Oh, the horror. Sorry, that was sarcasm. Er, the last bit was, anyway. I meant it about needing a new handle.

Let's have a chapter, now, shall we?

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

The next morning, Phryne didn't make an appearance.

Jack pushed himself doggedly through his morning exercises, and then allowed Dorothy to settle him in the parlor with a cup of tea and a copy of the paper, listening all the while for the sound of a knock on the front door while reminding himself, grimly and repeatedly, that after the conversation they'd had by the creek on the previous afternoon, Phryne almost certainly wasn't going to come.

With Hugh out at the station, as usual, and Mac having already left to go about her rounds, the house felt empty and uncomfortably silent. The only sounds came from Dorothy, apparently cleaning up tea things in the kitchen.

Jack tried to pay attention to the news in the paper, but was disappointed to find that the Appleton and Dormer homicide coupling by now seemed to be old news; no longer sensational enough to be printed. His mind kept wandering back to what Dorothy had told him the day before, about Anderson's incompetent refusal to devote any real focus to the case, and about Hugh's determined moonlighting.

 _It must be difficult enough, working underneath an idiot like Anderson,_ thought Jack grimly,  _without having to do half the force's dirty work at the same time. If Hugh's performance on the force declines because of this ridiculous petition, he might find himself demoted back to Junior Constable, now that I'm not there to bribe and cajole. I need to talk him out of this crazy reinstatement petition idea. In the end, it will just end up being a lot of extra hard work for nothing at all. I'm not coming back to City South. It's out of the question. Maybe Collins needs to have a talk with Dr. MacMillan. I'm sure she'll be able to make him see reason, even if no one else can. Actually, I can't believe that Mrs. Collins is letting him get away with any of this. She's an incredibly sensible person…far too sensible, I thought, to let Hugh run himself ragged over an altruistic pipe dream. It might not have been such a bad idea to call in Miss Fisher, after all. No doubt Collins could use a little unofficial help, and I'm sure she won't let him flounder._

Thoughts of Phryne, Jack knew, were dangerous and ill-advised, and he tried to force himself to think of anything but their lingering kiss on the picnic blanket; about the way she'd melted unashamedly into his arms and the wistful little smile that had been on her lips when he'd finally, reluctantly pulled away.

Shutting his eyes for a moment and taking a quick breath, Jack firmly dismissed the image from his mind.

 _Too little, too late,_ he thought miserably, echoing something that Mac had said to him weeks ago at dinner.

Ruefully aware that wallowing in his own self-pity wasn't getting him anywhere that he wanted to be, Jack settled back in his chair and began leafing through the paper, looking disinterestedly for the crossword.

It was only when Jack was half-heartedly engrossed in the puzzle, trying to interest himself in the six-letter name of a famous jazz clarinetist, that he heard the familiar sound of a knock on the front door. He sat up immediately, swallowing hard and hoping against hope, listening to Dorothy's footsteps in the hallway as she crossed to answer the door.

"Oh, Miss," said Dorothy by the door. "I was wondering if you were going to come by, today."

Jack's heart leapt before he could remind it not to get too excited.

"Sorry I'm late, Dot," replied Phryne airily. "Mr. Butler and I had a few things to take care of around the house, this morning, and then I had to wait for Cec and Bert to finish up a job for another client."

"Sorry, Miss Fisher," mumbled Cec, "but I mean, can you blame us? You've been away for months, Miss. We had to take on some other jobs. Can't just blow 'em off now. Wouldn't be very professional, now would it?"

"I wouldn't mind just blowing off that Parker sheila," muttered Bert. "She's a real nasty piece of work. Give me Miss Fisher over some of them nasty, stuck-up women any day; like they're too full of themselves to even look you in the eye. At least our Miss Fisher knows how to treat a bloke with real respect. It's a nice change from what we've been dealing with."

"Are you going on another picnic today, Miss?" Dorothy sounded a little wary. "Dr. MacMillan doesn't seem to think that Inspector Robinson's quite ready for another outing, just yet. He missed his afternoon dose yesterday, you know."

"Not a picnic this time, Dot," replied Phryne. "Not precisely an outing, either. There won't be any missed doses today, I assure you. Jack?"

After a moment, Phryne stepped into the parlor, where she found Jack sitting with his newspaper.

"Good morning, Jack," she said, smiling at him. "Sorry that I'm a little past my time. Let's get started on packing your things. Cec and Bert are on hand to help load it all into the car when you're ready."

Jack stared.

"I…my what?" He blinked.

"Your things, Jack," repeated Phryne. "Oh, it doesn't have to be everything. I suppose what's most important is that we get all of your medicines sorted out, and any clothes that you're going to want to have with you. Other than that, I'm sure that we already have most of what you'll want at the house. Mr. Butler is exceedingly well-equipped to suit a gentleman's needs in most respects."

Jack coughed, cleared his throat, and then frowned at her.

"I'm afraid," he said slowly, "that I don't quite-!"

"You'll be coming to stay with me and Mr. Butler," Phryne informed him, "at least until you're back on your feet again. Mac has already agreed to add my residence to her morning rounds, and I'm certain that you'll find everything there completely satisfactory."

This was all a little bit too much, and Jack had a strong feeling that Phryne was teasing him, or at least testing him somehow. Taking a quick, steadying breath, he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Although," he began slowly, "I am flattered by the invitation, Miss Fisher, I don't necessarily feel that I care to accept, just at the moment."

Phryne rolled her eyes at home.

"I was afraid you'd say that," she said. "That's why I didn't ask you. I'm afraid, Jack, that I'll have to insist."

Jack frowned.

"You see, Jack," Phryne went on, "as we're going to be working on this investigation together, it seems the most reasonable and convenient thing in the world for us to be as accessible to one another as possible. Of course, there's no way on earth that Mac's ever going to sign off on allowing you to travel in the Hispano-Suiza, and my house is much closer to Cec and Bert's usual morning route. Gathering you from here every morning is likely to prove more than a tiny bit inconvenient, and we'd hate to put our two favorite cabbies out of temper, wouldn't we? We'd be in a bit of bind without them, unless Mac relents and finally lets me drive you."

Jack just shook his head.

"There are a great many reasons," he began quietly, "and I think you know them all, why it would be a bad idea for us to begin living under the same roof. With all due respect, Miss Fisher-!"

"There are also," murmured Phryne, lowering her voice a bit and shooting a significant look at the door, "a couple of reasons why it might be a very good idea for you to come and stay with me fora time. Don't you think it would be nice for Hugh and Dot to have a few days to themselves? I understand that poor Hugh's just a bit bogged down with work, at present."

Jack glanced over at the door, and Dorothy chose that convenient moment to come hurrying in.

"Is everything all right, Miss?" She frowned. "Inspector, you haven't finished your tea. You know that you're supposed to stay fully hydrated. Shall I get you a fresh cup?"

Jack was stuck. He knew, of course, that Phryne was right, and that Dorothy and Hugh had absolutely been working themselves to the bone, making sure that he got everything he needed while still maintaining as much of his dignity as they possibly could.

The idea that the onerous burden of his care was now being transferred from one set of good Samaritans to another rankled and made him deeply ashamed, but he couldn't deny that Dorothy and Hugh deserved more than just a break. Much as he wanted to, he realized that trying to protest that he was perfectly fine on his own would have been completely ridiculous, as he'd only just recently managed to develop a system of putting his own trousers on without a second helpful pair of hands. Just doing that had been a triumphant step, but there was, of course, still a long way to go down the path to independence.

Jack sighed with frustration.

"There's another reason, as well, of course," said Phryne quietly, "and it's a rather more selfish reason, I'm afraid. I'd very much like for us to be partners again, Jack; partners in doing what it is that we do best, solving crimes and righting wrongs. I really do feel that a true partnership involves a certain amount of synchronicity, and I'm sure that we'll be much more suited to staying in step if you stick close. Just at the moment, until you're a bit more mobile, I'd like you to stay with me for the simple convenience of regular, daily contact and conference."

Startled, Jack widened his eyes at her.

"If we're really concerned about convenience," he suggested, "don't you think it would be a better idea to ally yourself with a partner who is more capable of moving around on his own?"

Phryne only shook her head.

"There's not another partner in the word," she said, with uncharacteristic seriousness in her eyes, "who could ever suit me. You may be having a bit of trouble with your legs at the moment, Jack, but your heart and mind are my treasures, and I'm not willing to give them up so easily."

Reaching into her handbag, Phryne fumbled around for a moment before pulling out the familiar, shiny gold sheriff's badge that had once been a childhood treasure of Jack's.

"I know that you don't much care for the idea of being a Mycroft Holmes," she said, leaning in and delicately pinning it to Jack's breast before taking a step back to admire her work. "What would you say, then, to being my Watson, instead?"

For a long moment, Jack couldn't think of a thing to say. His heart was full of a lot of things; embarrassment and shame, yes, but also relief and gratification, and hope, most of all; the most dangerous of all the things that ever came out of Pandora's box.

"I think," he said slowly, after a long, thoughtful pause, "that it would make more sense, Miss Fisher, for you to become  _my_ Watson. I am, after all, your senior, and a more experienced investigator by far."

Phryne raised an eyebrow and laughed.

"Oh, we'll see about that," she assured him, shaking her head and smiling.

Jack, too, found himself beginning to smile.

"What do you say, Dot?" Phryne turned back to the doorway, where Dorothy was still standing. "As my illustrious client in this matter, would you be willing to accept a last-minute addition to the investigation team? Mr. Jack Robinson, you see," she added, coloring her voice a bit and doing, apparently,, an impression of the great Sherlock Holmes, "is an invaluable brilliant with whom, of course, I conduct all my most complicated cases. You can trust him implicitly."

She shot Jack a wink over her shoulder, and Jack only shook his head incredulously at her, a sort of delicious, comforting warmth beginning to fill that cold, dark place in his chest where "too little, too late," had begun to take root.

"Of course, Miss," murmured Dorothy, looking almost as delighted as Jack and Phryne. "I leave the investigation, Mr. Robinson, in your no doubt perfectly capable hands."

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** Ooh, I really enjoyed that. I do love me some Sherlock Holmes.

G is standing over my shoulder, now, however, giving me the eye, asking when I am going to get ready to go out our 2:30 call for the final performance this weekend. He wants to get lunch on the way, and if I make him wait any longer it may result in unprecedented disaster, so I'd better go.

Please do make a suggestion about the pen names. I'm really in a bit of a spot, and I'd better get this change done ASAP!


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for all the helpful thoughts and comments! I've decided to go (as you can see) with Ari Alleyn, and I've gone back and updated the heck out of everything to try and wipe "Ari Moriarty" as much off the face of the earth as is possible. I've updated my website with the new moniker, and I've switched over both my FFnet handle and my Ao3 handle. I think all I need to do now is to go back through individual stories and change my name on all the title pages. That…will take a little more doing. Good thing I've got the whole afternoon!

Before I start in on that thankless task, however I thought I'd treat myself to a little writing before G gets home from work.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Two hours later, Cec and Bert unloaded Jack and his three suitcases from the cab and deposited them all in front of the Fisher residence.

"Hmm," murmured Phryne, frowning at her own front steps. "This won't do it all. I suppose I'll have to have a ramp installed as soon as possible. Bert?"

"We'll take care of it, Miss Fisher," muttered Bert.

"Yeah," agreed Cec amiably. "One day at a time; ain't that right, Inspector? Come on, then. One, two, three-!"

Between them, Cec and Bert heaved Jack's chair up to the top of the steps, where they found the door already standing partly open, crossed the sill, and discovered Mr. Butler waiting for them inside.

"Ah, Inspector," murmured Mr. Butler, nodding and smiling at Jack. "How nice to see you again, sir. Please, allow me to take your things."

He reached for one of the suitcases, but Bert just shook his head.

"It's allright, Mr. Butler," he insisted. "We've got it. Where do you want us to put 'em?"

Mr. Butler nodded.

"If you don't mind, then, Mr. Johnson," he said, "please put the Inspector's bags in my room. I'll get all of his things sorted out a bit later…after I've laid for lunch."

"Right." Bert nodded, and then he and Cec took a suitcase each in their hands and tramped off somewhere into the interstices of the house.

"I'm afraid," murmured Mr. Butler apologetically, deftly taking the reins of Jack's wheelchair and propelling him gently into the parlor, "that you may find the room a bit small for your tastes, Inspector. I hope it's not too disagreeable, of course. I've done my best to spruce it up a bit for your arrival, and it's quite clean. I'm sure you'll find it convenient, at least, for the duration of your stay with us. Of course, under different circumstances I would have happily offered you one of our fine guests rooms in the suite upstairs, but…as things stand, you'll see, I'm sure, that it wouldn't have been possible."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"I'm…quite sure that everything will be more than satisfactory," he said warily. "Thank you, Mr. Butler. May I inquire where exactly I will be staying?"

"Mr. Butler," clarified Phryne, "has been kind enough to offer up his own room for a few weeks."

Mr. Butler beamed.

Jack, on the other hand, looked horrified.

"I…I've turned you out of your room?" Glancing sharply over his shoulder at Phryne, he took a quick breath and then adamantly shook his head. "I'm….terribly sorry, Mr. Butler. I had no idea. Of course, I can't possibly accept. You're very kind, certainly, but I wouldn't presume to-!"

"It's no trouble at all, Inspector," Mr. Butler assured him airily. "Naturally, I sleep on the ground floor, in order to be on hand in case of any unexpected domestic emergencies, and so that I don't wake the ladies when I rise early. Mine is the only acceptable bedroom on this level, and it is absolutely and completely at your disposal for the duration of your recovery. You needn't have any concerns about it. I'm just delighted that we had something to suit your needs."

"You really shouldn't be too put out, Jack," Phryne assured him, as Jack continued to look noble and mortified. "Mr. Butler will be enjoying the much cushier guest suites upstairs while you're putting up with confined quarters down here. I don't think he'll be suffering very much."

"But, still," insisted Jack, shaking his head. "Mr. Butler is a methodical man, with systems, no doubt, and everything its right place. Having to abandon his bedroom for lord knows how long is probably more than just a little bit inconvenient."

Mr. Butler just continued to smile placidly, radiating the same relaxing, welcoming calm that he always had before, back when Jack had been a frequent visitor to the Fisher residence.

"I'm sure," he told Jack, "that I'll find some way to endure, Inspector. Now, shall we have some tea? Lunch is almost ready, but Dorothy telephoned me only moments ago to give me a detailed list of your daily requirements and medication routines. As I understand it, you did not finish your tea this morning, and hydration is a key step in the healing process, is it not? Perhaps Mr. Yates and Mr. Johnson would care to join us. I'll just go and ask, then. If you'll excuse me, Miss Fisher?"

Phryne nodded and Mr. Butler strode off, presumably to go and hunt down Cec and Bert, who for some reason had yet to return for the third suitcase.

"I had no idea," muttered Jack, shaking his head as Phryne seated herself beside him on the sofa. "You didn't tell me that I'd-!"

"If I had," interjected Phryne, "you'd never have come."

Jack just glared at her.

"It's really all right, Jack," she insisted. "I'm sure that Mr. Butler's just glad that he can do something constructive to help. After all, he's been absolutely worried sick about you."

Jack raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Oh yes," added Phryne, responding to the uncertain look in his eyes. "I'm completely serious. You've really become quite a staple in our lives, Jack Robinson…a part of our little makeshift family, if you will. Of course he worried. We all did."

Jack, who didn't seem to know quite how to respond to that, just frowned for a moment and then glanced thoughtfully off in the direction that Mr. Butler had gone.

"Now then," said Phryne. "I have some good news, and some not quite as good news, Jack. The good news is that I've got a present for you; the identity of the mysteriously murdered Mr. Dormer."

"Really." Jack raised an eyebrow.

"You were absolutely right about his being a member of the staff," Phryne told him. "Mr. Arthur Dormer was, until very recently, the hotel caretaker. He was also the eldest son of the much-beloved former caretaker, Mr. Charlie Dormer, who passed away only a month ago, leaving his situation to be handed down the family line. I understand that Mr. Arthur, having only held his post for a few weeks, had already gotten into at least one spate of trouble with the law. It seems there was an incident involving expensive jewelry disappearing inexplicably from the dressing table in one of the guestrooms."

"Ah." Jack nodded. "Then there's some indication that this Mr. Dormer may actually have been a jewel thief. You're thinking of the missing finger."

Phryne nodded.

"And of course," she added, "if he really was a thief, then that gives us a link between the two victims."

"Was Mr. Dormer," asked Jack, "ever actually convicted of the robbery?"

"Never," replied Phryne. "Lack of evidence, apparently, that he'd even been in the room at the time when the theft must have occurred. It's worth noting, however, that the missing emeralds in question still haven't turned up."

"Hmm," muttered Jack.

"I've arranged for us to have a guided tour of the hotel tomorrow morning at ten o'clock," Phryne went on. "The manager, Edith Gaveston, who I understand comes from her own long and proud line of Gavestons in the hospitality industry, was more than a little eager to speak to me about the case. She's disgusted with the police and claims that they haven't even been trying to solve the murder, and that subsequent rumors are ruining her business. She encourages us to interrogate any and all of the staff if we think it will help clear things up….and she assures me that there won't be any surprise visits from the official force. Apparently our Detective Anderson hasn't been by the hotel in at least three days."

Jack looked disgusted.

"I take it," he sighed, "that that is the bad news."

Phryne just shook her head.

"Not that," she assured him. "It's even worse, I'm afraid. I'm having a party tonight, here, at the house, to celebrate my homecoming. As a matter of fact, it was Aunt Prudence's idea. I think she's just delighted to have me out of my father's clutches again."

Jack winced.

"I'm sorry," said Phryne. "I scheduled this days ago, long before I had any idea that we'd have the pleasure of your company, Jack, and I certainly can't cancel it, now."

"I wouldn't expect you to," muttered Jack.

"You were invited, of course," Phryne went on, "but I've no doubt that Dot did something sneaky with your invitation, and I can't blame her. I honestly don't think that it would be the best idea right now for you to stay up all night drinking with the usual crowd. Mac informs me that she's sworn you off of alcoholic indulgences of any kind, at least until you're well enough to give up the pain medicine."

Jack sighed, and Phryne gave him a very sympathetic look.

"The very idea," he muttered, shaking his head, "that I'm staying in your house, so tantalizingly close to a storeroom full of your finest champagne, and yet I'm forbidden from getting even a taste. It's enough to drive any man mad."

"You'll have to be strong," Phryne told him with mock-seriousness in her voice.

Jack gave her a rueful sort of half-smile.

"I understand, then," he said, "that you're not going to expect me to make an appearance tonight?"

"No," Phryne assured him seriously. "I'm not. Of course, all of the guests will be asking about you, and I'm sure that everyone would be just delighted to see you, but I think that it would be better, honestly, if you just got some rest, this evening. I've already made you jump through enough hoops today, what with moving everything from your house to mine. There will be more than enough opportunities for glamorous social evenings when you're feeling better."

Jack just nodded and then opened his mouth to reply, and for a moment Phryne thought she saw something in his eyes that she didn't quite recognize; something doubtful and almost angry.

Phryne was startled, but almost immediately Jack shook his head, swallowed, and then the strange expression was gone, and he was left just looking tired.

"Jack," asked Phryne, deeply unsettled. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," insisted Jack, shaking his head. "Nevermind. You're right…I don't think this is destined to be a particularly gaudy night for me. Perhaps another time."

Phryne tried to smile, still a little uncertain about what had looked, for a moment, like a very uncharacteristic mood swing.

"I'll make sure that Mr. Butler serves your dinner before the guests arrive," she told him, "to be sure that you get choice rations."

"I'm looking forward to it," returned Jack levelly. "After our picnic fare the other day, I'm afraid I've been fighting off a persistent craving."

This time he smiled, and Phryne felt startled butterflies begin to flit around in her stomach She knew, of course, that he was referring to the shepherd's pie and scones that they'd shared over a hard-fought game of poker, and yet something about the way he'd said "craving," abruptly and alarmingly reminded her of the sweetly intense way he'd kissed her that afternoon by the creek.

Jack, watching the look on her face, suddenly widened his eyes at her and opened his mouth in surprise.

"I…" Pausing, he coughed, and then said, "I'm sorry. That obviously isn't what I meant. I was only thinking of-!"

"The scones, Jack," whispered Phryne. "I know."

Jack nodded, moistening his lips uncertainly.

 _But I,_ she thought sadly,  _have been fighting off a totally different craving…one that has absolutely nothing to do with pie and scones. You wouldn't think it to look at you, Jack, but you can be a terrible tease at times, in your own subtle little way, even if you're not doing it on purpose. Or…are you, I wonder?_

She gave him a long, searching look, but found that he didn't seem particularly eager to meet her eyes.

"Jack," she began.

Unfortunately, she never had a chance to finish the sentence, and wasn't sure exactly what she would have said if she had.

Mr. Butler chose that moment to return with a tray full of tea things, along with Cec and Bert.

"All finished, Inspector," announced Cec. "You're all set up nice and cozy in the downstairs bedroom whenever you want to go and give it a look over."

"Pretty fancy for servant's quarters," added Bert, nodding appreciatively. "Think you're gonna like it here."

Phryne glanced over at Mr. Butler, and saw that he, without comment or even a raised eyebrow, had begun placidly pouring Jack a cup of tea.

 _Mr. Butler,_ she thought, frowning,  _isn't just a servant. He's…well, he's just as much a part of this family as Jack is. Moreso, perhaps. Strange…I wonder when we became a 'family?' Is that what happens, then when you spend so much time with someone that you start not being able to imagine would life would be like without them? I suppose that makes us more of a family than the Baron and Baroness Fisher and I will ever be….not that I lose any sleep over it._

Somehow, she didn't feel quite comfortable saying any of that aloud, as she wasn't sure just exactly how much such a sentiment would embarrass Mr. Butler. Instead, she selected another cup from the tray, while Cec and Bert sat down in two chairs across from the sofa.

"Drink up, Inspector," suggested Cec. "Dottie told me particular not to let you get away with dehydrating. Wouldn't want to make her angry, would we?"

"We're watching you, mate," added Bert, looking unnecessarily menacing. "Doctor's orders, right? Go on, down the hatch."

Jack, shaking his head and smiling, dutifully began sipping at his tea, while Mr. Butler filled cups for Cec and Bert.

Sitting there in the parlor with four of the most ridiculous mismatched men ever to share a room, Phryne felt suddenly very happy, and then abruptly and almost perversely very uncomfortable.

"Your pills, Inspector Robinson," murmured Mr. Butler, producing them from somewhere inside his jacket pocket.

Jack accepted them, nodded his thanks, and then downed them with a swig of tea.

"Thank you, Mr. Butler," he said.

"That's right, there you are," said Cec encouragingly.

Jack, probably sick of being spoken to as though he were a difficult child, gave Cec a severe sort of look, and Phryne, relieved by the lessening of the tension in her own conflicted soul, started to laugh.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** This is, of course, another two-part chapter, and I am almost certainly going to post the next installment tonight or tomorrow morning, since I have a little time.

I do have to go to the gym first, though. Can't neglect my personal health regimen.

Oh, I do want to give you all a head's up, real quick.

In future chapters, I am going to be taking Jack's character in a direction, briefly, that we haven't seen it go before in the canon. Pain medication and the stress of being an invalid do tend to bring out some of the worst in people, and it sometimes causes us to behave in ways that seem even alarmingly out of character. I'm doing this on purpose to make a point about what Jack's going through, but I know that, since many of you are really very delightfully devoted to Jack being portrayed as accurately as possible, I'd let you know that I'm doing it on purpose and with pointed intent. ;) That's all for the disclaimer. See you in a few hours!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's Note:** Ugh, what a day.

Writing time now. Yep.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Much later that evening, with everything finally comfortably unpacked and arranged for Jack's best convenience, Jack sat and had his dinner in his borrowed bedroom, while Phryne's homecoming party raged on just outside the door.

Jack had a headache, which wasn't such an unusual occurrence and hadn't been one even prior to his injuries. Dr. MacMillan had even warned him that prolonged morphine use might end up having that effect, but the noisy atmosphere on the other side of the door wasn't making it any easier for him, and the headache was slowly and inexorably beginning to turn, inconveniently, into nausea. All the samples Mr. Butler had saved for Jack of his excellent party finger food were probably and unfortunately going to go to waste.

To try and take his mind off of the unhappy feelings in his head and stomach, Jack tried focusing on the information he'd received that morning from Phryne, as to the details of the Dormer case that Hugh was probably working on.

The more he thought about what Phryne had said about Arthur Dormer, the more Jack was certain that he'd heard of the man before. If he remembered correctly, then the emerald theft in question had been, not too terribly long ago, handled at City South station by Senior Sergeant Carrington. In fact, Jack realized, as the investigation was obviously still ongoing, Carrington would probably know more about the deceased Dormers, father and son, than anyone else, and he'd be the very first person that Jack and Phryne would want to speak to in seeking out more concrete and less conjectural information about the victim.

This, of course, posed something of a moral dilemma for Jack.

Sergeant Carrington was a good man and a fair one; a young man who'd risen up with admirable efficiency through the police ranks due to hard work and attention to detail. Jack was certain that if he explained Hugh's situation to Carrington, Carrington would be more than willing to provide some relevant details in order to help a fellow officer out of a difficult spot.

Jack, however, had always had some scruples about providing sensitive police data to private detectives.

It was true that his partnership with Miss Fisher had proven, over the years, to be an incredibly productive and positive one. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he trusted her significantly more than he trusted most of the other offices on the force. That, however, didn't change the fact that he wasn't at all sure he felt comfortable putting another detective in the awkwardly delicate position of having to decide just how reasonable it was to provide an unauthorized civilian with private information about an ongoing case. It just didn't feel right, and Jack didn't think he particularly wanted it to feel right. There were some lines, he knew, that even a retired police officer just shouldn't cross.

 _A fine private detective I'm turning out to be,_ he thought ruefully, shaking his head and then wincing and wishing that he hadn't.  _It's partially due to her appalling lack of professional scruples that Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective, gets such efficient results. My pride fell with my fortunes. I'm going to have to unlearn a good deal of what I spent years being proud of as a policeman._

With that resolve in mind, Jack decided that there was no time like the present, and that he'd better go and make his efforts before he lost his nerve or changed his mind.

Abandoning his essentially untasted dinner of choice hors d'oerves, he steeled himself for a party full of unwelcome, headache-exacerbating light and sound and then wheeled himself out the door and into the hallway.

As it turned out, Jack was in luck. While he'd been making up his mind whether to follow his instincts or not, most of the guests had apparently vacated the hall. Jack could see them through the front windows, now, all collected on the lawn and in the midst of what looked like some sort of complicated party game that he didn't pretend to recognize. All he could make out from where he was standing was that it apparently involved some kind of convoluted body contortion routine. One of the men had himself draped over the back of a scantily-clad woman, who was, apparently, attempting to crawl through the legs of the woman to her left.

Jack shook his head in tolerant bewilderment and turned himself towards the kitchen where Phryne kept her telephone.

The kitchen was a very short ride away, and it was only moments after he'd left his bedroom that Jack heard the voices coming from behind the closed kitchen door.

"Algie," Phryne was saying in that gently teasing way of hers, "this is ridiculous. You shouldn't have come…and I think you know it."

Jack froze outside the door.

"I couldn't help myself," replied a half-choked masculine voice that Jack didn't recognize. "I wanted to see you, Phryne. I  _needed_ to see you. When I heard you'd gone, I...I just knew that I couldn't let it be. I had to come after you. I thought-!"

"So you flew all the way from England," interrupted Phryne, "just to follow a woman who's already turned you down once. I meant it when I said I couldn't have you, Algie. I was quite serious the first time. I'm terribly sorry, but my answer really hasn't changed."

There was something jarring in the way that Phryne said those words; something that didn't quite seem to add up for Jack. She certainly seemed to be rejecting this 'Algie,' probably the same courageous Algernon Garfield of such fame and fortune whom Jack was sure she'd dallied with in England.

The soft, unnecessarily gentle tone of her voice, however, somehow didn't lend itself to a rejection, and that made Jack uncomfortable.

"I know you don't mean that," murmured the insistent 'Algie.' "Phryne, you can't. There was something wonderful between us, that night, and I can't be led to believe that you didn't feel it. I won't. You can't scare me away so easily."

"Algie," murmured Phryne warningly, still entirely too meek for Jack's liking.

 _She'll never get rid of him like that,_ Jack thought.

Taking a deep breath and aggressively clearing his throat to make himself known, Jack pulled open the kitchen door just in time to see Algie taking Phryne in his arms and kissing her deeply, pressing her to his chest with a manly fervency that Jack uncomfortably recognized all too well as a symptom of the desperate effect that Phryne had on passionate men.

Jack had expected and was waiting for Phryne to push Algie away.

His heart sank like a stone when he saw that, just for a moment in the midst of kiss, she had her eyes closed.

Then, after a moment's frozen pause that felt horribly like a lifetime to Jack, Phryne did manage to disentangle herself from Algie, looked up, and saw Jack sitting in the doorway.

"Jack," she whispered, her eyes going wide and the smile on her lips fading away completely.

Algie turned and glanced down at Jack in some surprise.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, with an appalling amount of offended pride in his voice, considering he'd just been caught making advances on a woman who, apparently, hadn't wanted anything to do with them.

 _I can understand his confusion,_ thought Jack bitterly.  _It certainly didn't look to me as though she really wanted nothing to do with him._

"I…" Jack started to speak, then swallowed hard, took a quick, steadying breath, and set his jaw.

"Jack, wait," said Phryne quickly, probably reacting to the look on his face.

"I-I'm sorry," managed Jack quietly. "I didn't mean to intrude. Excuse me."

Phryne made a move towards him, but Jack spun his chair around and began wheeling himself, with what he knew was horribly undignified speed, back down the hallway and towards his own room.

"Jack" called Phryne after him, but Jack didn't stop.

All the way back to his room, he could feel the heat rushing into his face as he tried to get a hold of himself and to make sense of what had just happened.

This wasn't, of course, the first time that he'd caught Phryne with another man. It probably wasn't even the tenth time.

 _She's never made any secret of the fact that she enjoys the company of attractive men,_ Jack reminded himself.  _Algernon Garfield is, no doubt, exactly her type. I can't pretend to be surprised._

The truth was, however, that Jack was surprised, and deeply hurt in a way that made him feel somehow only more ashamed of himself. He was angry, too; far angrier than he'd ever been before at having seen Phryne in the midst of a romantic interlude with another man, and the anger startled and appalled him even as it grew and grew, tightening his chest and making his head ache even worse. He couldn't explain just exactly what it was that was playing such havoc with his emotional control, but while he was doing his best to take a deep breath and to relax his injured pride and startled nerves, his bedroom door swung open and Phryne stood in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"Jack," she said quietly.

Jack just swallowed, looked up at her, and nodded curtly.

"I…had hoped to use your telephone," he muttered helplessly, feeling foolish, but not sure what else there was to say.

Phryne gave him a half-hearted, rueful sort of smile.

"I'm afraid you chose a rather inopportune moment," she murmured.

"My apologies," said Jack stiffly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Phryne only shook her head at him, then sat down in a chair across from his and sighed.

"It isn't what you think," she said softly.

"I don't presume to think," retorted Jack, pointedly not looking at her.

"Of course you do," returned Phryne. "You think constantly…and feverishly. I only wish you'd share with me a little bit of what you're thinking right now."

Jack, who was certain that there was nothing, at that moment, at all worth sharing, at first said nothing.

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly after a moment's pause. "I've no right to have opinions on the subject. You don't owe me any explanations."

"It didn't mean anything," insisted Phryne. "Jack, Algie's an old friend from England."

"An old friend," muttered Jack.

"Yes," agreed Phryne, "an old friend who got a little too excited about our time together, and who made me a proposition that I had to refuse. He seems to be having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that I don't share his feelings. That's all."

Jack gave her a long, serious look.

"I can understand," he said after a moment, "why he might be confused. You certainly didn't seem too offended by his attentions."

Phryne shrugged.

"I like to let a man down gently," she explained. "He'd come a long way only to be disappointed. I didn't see any reason to rub salt in the wound."

Jack just shook his head.

"You closed your eyes," he muttered half-under his breath, "when he kissed you."

Phryne looked startled, opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, gave Jack helpless sort of smile, and shook her head.

"He really is an excellent kisser," she admitted. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it."

Jack winced.

"Jack," said Phryne gently, "we've been through all of this before. I thought you understood…about me. I thought you had come to terms with who I was."

Jack took a deep breath.

"I thought I had," he admitted. "I hoped I had."

Phryne sighed.

"Perhaps," she whispered, "it was only wishful thinking on both our parts."

Jack looked up at Phryne, and was startled to see that there was a sadness in her eyes and a sort of wistful look about her smile that he wasn't sure he'd seen there before.

He found himself suddenly and perversely wanting to reach out to her; to take her in his arms to banish that sadness from her eyes. Unfortunately, Phryne was out of reach of Jack's chair, and somehow he was sure that wheeling himself awkwardly over to fumble for her would eliminate all the romance of the overture.

Phryne must have seen the look in his eyes, because she got up from her chair, crossed to meet him and then rested her hands on his shoulders, kissing him gently on the forehead in a way that probably would have been condescending, if it had come from any other woman, but wasn't, in this case, for some soft and deliciously indistinct reason that Jack couldn't quite place. Jack felt his forehead burning under the impression of her lips, and when she pulled away there was a longing in her eyes that matched the one eating away at his insides.

Jack's heart began pounding faster.

"For what it's worth," said Phryne seriously, "I care for you, Jack. Maybe that doesn't mean so very much to you, right now, but please try to understand what it means to me."

"It means everything to me," Jack said simply.

Phryne stopped mid-sentence, then gave him a quick half-smile. The sadness was still there in her face, but at least some of Jack's anger seemed to have melted away and he was feeling a little bit more like himself again.

 _I shouldn't let myself be talked down like this,_ he thought half-heartedly.  _Anger, at least, is a tool of self-preservation. Without it, I'm a lost man._

"You haven't touched your dinner," remarked Phryne, glancing over at the uneaten side dishes. No good? It's all gone cold, now."

"I…have a headache," muttered Jack.

Phryne frowned.

"I'm sure you do," she said. "You've had a trying day, and I certainly haven't made it any easier for you."

She glanced out the window at the party in the yard, then nodded to herself and started back towards the door.

"Your guests are waiting for you," said Jack.

Phryne shrugged.

"They haven't even noticed I'm gone," she assured him. "I'll go to the kitchen and see what's left that I can scrounge up. I haven't eaten either, so I don't see any reason why we shouldn't have a late dinner together…if you still want me, Jack."

Glancing over her shoulder, she raised a questioning eyebrow at Jack.

 _I have never stopped wanting you, though it be the end of me,_ thought Jack, shaking his head.

"Please," he said aloud. "I'd appreciate the company."

This time, when Phryne smiled, there was a bit more in it of her usual brightness.

* * *

**Author's End Note:**

I feel a little better after writing that…but I'm still in a bit of a funk. Maybe I'll just go to bed early.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's Note:** Thanks very much for all of your advice on my tricky personal issue. We will see how things progress. For the moment, I'm gonna devote as much energy as possible to finishing this story. I think that's probably for the best…and I'm really enjoying writing it.

You have all been incredibly kind, supportive encouraging and overall delightful with your commentary and suggestions. Even when you disagree with my takes or interpretations, you're always very polite, constructive and considerate about the way you let me know.

You're wonderful people and I value your opinions and feelings very highly. Just wanted to make sure you knew that. Oh, and for any of you celebrating today, as I am, I hope you had a safe and healthy fast.

Now I'm going to ingest this ENTIRE piece of cake in a single swoop, because fasting time is finally over, and then I'm gonna write the hell out of this next chapter! Huzzah!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

The next morning, Jack woke up to a polite double knock on his bedroom door.

"Inspector Robinson," inquired the voice of Mr. Butler from outside. "Are you awake, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Butler," grunted Jack, clearing his throat and forcing himself up onto his elbows, wincing against the now familiar, aggressive sensation of all the pain flooding back through his back and ribs now that he was awake again and the morphine had long since worn off. "Please, come in."

The door opened, and Mr. Butler strode in, fresh and impeccable as usual, with a tray in his hands.

"Good morning, Inspector," murmured Mr. Butler, gently depositing the tray on Jack's bedside table. "I've brought your pills, sir, and a glass of water. Dr. MacMillan has informed me in no uncertain terms that I am to remain at your side until I have seen and witnessed that you've drunk down the entire contents of the glass."

Jack made a wry face, then scooted himself over to the table and reached for the glass. He dutifully swallowed both his pills and washed them down with, under the watchful eye of Mr. Butler, the entire glass of water.

"Very good, sir," said Mr. Butler, nodding approvingly. "If you'd care to join us next door, breakfast is being served in the dining room in ten minutes. Dr. MacMillan has already arrived, and she and Miss Fisher are eagerly awaiting your entrance. I've pressed a few of your shirts, Inspector, and you'll find them hanging up on the bathroom door; just through there to your left, although I'm afraid it's a bit more cramped than you're accustomed to."

Mr. Butler collected Jack's wheelchair from the other side of the room, wheeled it over next to the bed, and then smiled.

"If you require any further assistance," he announced, "I'll be just outside, Inspector."

Jack's eyebrows went up in surprise, and he shot a doubtful look at the bathroom door all the way on the other side of the room. He'd honestly expected Mr. Butler, a man who seemed to constantly and effortlessly anticipate a guest's wants and needs, to have been at least a little more solicitously helpful.

Mr. Butler must have noticed the look on Jack's face, because his smile softened and he shook his head.

"Many years ago," he said quietly, "I suffered a broken arm in a boating accident while visiting the seaside with relatives of the man who was, at the time, my employer. I remember all too well how unbelievably galling it was to have everyone constantly insisting on doing everything for me, as though I had somehow been reduced to the incompetent status of a young child or an ailing elderly man. Being an invalid, sir, can be an extremely trying experience, I know, but you'll never rejoin the ranks of the competent and capable if you aren't allowed to learn how to cope with even the most basic things, like morning rituals, for yourself."

After a moment's startled silence, Jack started to smile.

"I will, of course," added Mr. Butler gently, "be at your service if you should discover that you need any help, sir. You've only to call."

"Thank you, Mr. Butler," said Jack, and he meant it.

Mr. Butler only inclined his head and turned towards the door.

"It's my pleasure, Inspector," he said.

As Mr. Butler was just leaving, his hand already on the doorknob, Jack suddenly frowned and called out after him.

"Mr. Butler," he said. "I really don't think it's necessary for you to refer to me as 'Inspector' any longer. I'm afraid that...titles and times have unfortunately changed."

Mr. Butler only nodded.

"So I understand sir," he said, apparently unperturbed. "In that case, how would you prefer that I address you in future?"

Jack shrugged.

"Mr. Robinson," he said after a moment, "should be fine."

"Very good, Mr. Robinson." Mr. Butler shot him a quick, polite little smile, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, giving Jack his privacy.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and waiting hopefully for the morphine to mercifully kick in, Jack used his arms to help drag himself along the bedclothes until he could, slowly but deliberately, lower himself into the waiting wheelchair.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, dressed and washed up as best he could manage under the circumstances, Jack wheeled himself out into the hallway, where he found Mr. Butler waiting for him, as promised.

"Ah, wonderful," said Mr. Butler, drawing no attention whatever to the fact that Jack had taken a good ten minutes longer to pull himself together than Mr. Butler had originally indicated. "I understand form Miss Fisher, sir that you've taken something of a liking to my new buttered scone recipe. I've made an extra-large batch in honor of your arrival."

Taking control of Jack's wheelchair, Mr. Butler pushed Jack through into the dining room, where Phryne and Dr. Mac were indeed sitting and waiting for him with various delicious-looking plates of breakfast ranged between them. There was a plate of scones and toast, a basket of fruit, and bowls of cereal and hot oatmeal, almost as though there were ten people coming to breakfast instead of only three.

"Ah, Jack! There you are!" Phryne's eyes lit up when she saw him, and when they locked gazes, Jack's heart skipped an uncomfortable beat. He remembered acutely, not for the first time since the evening before, the way she'd smiled at him while telling him, with uncharacteristic sincerity and frankness that she "cared for him," and what that meant to her.

"Good morning," managed Jack, as Mr. Butler quietly slid his wheelchair into place alongside the doctor.

"Morning," replied Mac, giving Jack an approving once-over. "You're looking pretty good, Jack. Maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea after all."

"Thank you...I think," muttered Jack.

"Go on, Jack," suggested Phryne, reaching for a scone. "Get yourself something to eat. We've got a busy day ahead of us, and Cec and Bert will be here in a few minutes to drive us to the hotel for our morning's interrogation. After that, it might be a good idea for us to drop by the police station, to see if we can have a quick word with that Sergeant Carrington you mentioned last night."

"Not," countered Mac, "until he's had his therapy, Phryne. You did take your pills this morning, didn't you, Jack? Did he, Mr. Butler? I don't think you understand how seriously you should be taking your hydration. We're not exactly out of the woods yet; start getting lazy, and you'll still risk an infection. If you think you're in pain now, then just wait until you let something like that happen. Trust me; things could always get worse."

Out of the corner of his vision, Jack could almost have sworn that he saw Mr. Butler roll his eyes and shoot him a half-sympathetic look.

Attempting to hide a smile, Jack reached for a piece of toast, a scone, and then the butter dish.

"Nothing wrong with your appetite, I see," murmured Phryne with laughter in her eyes. "Remember, Jack, you owe me the last scone, this time."

"If I recall correctly," retorted Jack, "then I don't owe you anything. I won the last scone in a fair fight, the last time we found ourselves in similar conflict."

"Might I suggest," interjected Mac, "that you both try something healthier, for a change? Maybe an apple?"

Phryne shot Jack an amused sort of look.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away, Mac," she quipped, "and lord knows that both Jack and I would hate to lose the pleasure of your company."

"Hah," snorted Mac. "I don't believe it for a second. I bet Jack would be absolutely thrilled to be rid of me…wouldn't you, Jack?"

"What, you mean because you're turning into a bore and a nag?" Phryne shrugged, and Mac made a face at her. "Don't worry. I'm sure that once Jack's a bit better and you've sloughed off that appallingly severe medical veneer of yours, we can all go back to being excellent friends again."

Mac let out an exaggerated little sigh.

"No respect," she muttered. "None at all, especially considering the time I've taken out of my schedule and the hoops I've jumped through just to be at your bedside, day in and day out."

"And I appreciate it," Jack assured her.

"Go on, Mac, have a scone," suggested Phryne, pushing the plate over towards her friend. "You'll feel better."

Mac selected a scone and bit savagely into it, but Jack was sure he could see that she, too, was trying her best to hide a smile, while Mr. Butler bustled neatly around the table, unobtrusively filling cups of tea and mugs off coffee.

The meal went on like that for some time, until the scones had all but been decimated.

"Jack," began Phryne, "I've had an idea that I rather like."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"What do you say," she suggested, "about our playing a little bit of 'divide and conquer,' with our errands today? While you and I tour the Gaveston and interrogate the servants, we might ask Dot to make an attempt on the good Sergeant Carrington."

Jack frowned.

"I don't think there's any point in that," he told Phryne. "Carrington might just be willing to talk to me, as a former detective and an associate of Hugh's, but I can't imagine he'd say anything to a civilian entirely unconnected with the police."

Phryne only shook her head.

"Oh, don't worry," she assured him airily, "Dot's very persuasive, and I wouldn't say that she's entirely 'unconnected.' She's married to a policeman, after all."

"I don't believe," countered Jack, "that a marital connection counts as professional enough to warrant the release of privileged information. Besides, five minutes ago you were all in favor of tackling Carrington ourselves."

"I was," agreed Phryne slowly, "but I've remembered, Jack, just how uncomfortable it's likely to make you, being a private detective intruding on official proceedings, and I don't see why we should make life any more difficult for you than it already is. I'm sure that Dot's perfectly equipped to handle the job without us."

She smiled innocently at him, and although Jack couldn't place exactly why, he realized that he wasn't at all sure he believed her excuse for why she suddenly didn't want to be the one to approach Sergeant Carrington. Remembering the very same innocent way she'd smiled at him the day before, when she'd glibly assured him that there was no need for him to make an appearance at the party where she'd encountered and subsequently kissed an overzealous 'old friend,' Jack felt an abrupt upsurge of irritation, and he coughed, frowning severely at her over his coffee cup and wondering just exactly what she was trying to keep hidden from him this time.

All of the same desperation and inexplicably acute feelings of frustrated longing that he'd experienced the night before in the kitchen came flooding unexpectedly back to Jack, and he gritted his teeth, his head starting to throb again as he stared down at his now empty plate and took a short, exasperated breath.

"Phryne," he said quietly and warningly, and there was a clipped kind of severity in his tone that startled even him.

Phryne glanced up sharply at Jack, looking genuinely surprised, but Mac chose that moment to get up from her chair.

"All right," she announced, looking up at the wall clock. "That's enough chit-chat. It's almost ten o'clock already, and I was perfectly serious when I said that neither of you is going anywhere until Jack's done his morning exercises. Come on, Inspector, let's get the torture over with, shall we?"

Without waiting for a response, Mac strode around to behind Jack's chair, grasped it and then turned him quickly around to face the door.

"Mr. Butler," she called over her shoulder as she wheeled Jack out into the hallway, "mind if I borrow you for a few minutes? We could use another, preferably a masculine pair of hands."

"Certainly, Doctor." Mr. Butler nodded, abandoned his post by the head of the table, and followed them out into the hallway. "If you'll excuse me a minute, Miss Fisher."

"Of course," murmured Phryne. "I'll wash up, Mr. Butler. Take your time."

Jack glanced briefly over his shoulder at Phryne as they left, to see that she was watching him, frowning with her lips pursed, the piece of fruit on her fork apparently forgotten and half-suspended midway to her mouth.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Another two-part chapter, and mostly a slow, character-development-centric one. Next time, we'll see Phryne and Jack actually investigating together again, at the Gaveston hotel! Finally!

In the meantime, however, I have an actual fanfiction-related question for you all, today.

I need to briefly mention another case over the course of this story, and I haven't decided on a case I'd like to use.

If I were to create another case, where do you think it should take place? What kind of a case should it be? Murder, theft, arson…? Anything really. I'd love a few suggestions (every time you lovely ones suggest something, I'm delighted by your tortuous, brilliant minds.).

Now I've got to go off and leave my story for a while, as I'm working on preparing a song for an upcoming audition. (I'll be auditioning for the role of Martha in the musical 1776. Don't worry, there's little to no chance of my getting the part, quite honestly and objectively, but I desperately need the audition practice, so I'm going anyway!)


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Author's Note:** It is going to be a long night. I have a to-do list four pages long, and my computer is acting very, very slowly, for some reason.

Despite it all, I am determined to get at least one chapter out before bed. I just feel so much better after I've written something. Seems to help a little with the insomnia.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

"He looks as though he's extremely uncomfortable," murmured Phryne a few minutes later, when Mr. Butler returned alone, having left Jack, apparently, with Mac. "You did give him his medicine this morning. I assume it must be some time, at least, before the drug starts taking affect."

Mr. Butler, in the process of refilling Phryne's coffee mug, frowned.

"I'm certain it does, Miss," he said slowly, "but as Mr. Robinson hasn't actually taken any morphine this morning, I don't think we'd best hold our breath waiting."

Phryne stared at him in surprise.

"But…you did give him the pills," she said. "I'm sure you did. Or…did he refuse them?"

"I gave them, Miss, and Mr. Robinson took them readily enough," agreed Mr. Butler, "but as I understand from speaking with Dorothy on the telephone this morning, the pills I administered today were not, in fact, pain-relievers. It seems that Dr. MacMillan has been substituting the morphine with sugar pills…placeholders, if you will, for the past several days. Last week, only one of the pills Mr. Robinson took each morning was, in fact, a morphine pill. The dose seems to have been tapered for some time."

Phryne opened her mouth, then shut it again and shook her head.

"That's insane," she muttered. "Why on earth would Mac do a thing like that? He must be in terrible pain!"

"I don't believe it's as bad as all that," countered Mr. Butler gently. "Mr. Robinson's injuries seem to be coming along quite nicely, and I'm certain the pain has significantly diminished from what it was at the beginning. Dr. MacMillan is, of course, concerned about the nasty side-effects of long term morphine dependence."

"I see," murmured Phryne. "Then, why the deception? Why not just tell Jack that the truth and take the pills away entirely?"

Mr. Butler shrugged.

"On that subject, I can only conjecture," he said, "but I assume that the pills are being removed gradually in hopes of lessening some of the psychological damage of withdrawal. No matter how strong you are or how resilient, Miss, there's a great deal of anxiety and distress that comes with the knowledge that there's nothing standing between you and the pain, any longer. Dr. MacMillan no doubt intends only to help ease the Inspector's already far too troubled mind."

Phryne frowned, and as she paused to consider that, Mr. Butler coughed politely.

"My apologies," he said. "I should have said 'Mr. Robinson.'"

"Don't worry, Mr. Butler," sighed Phryne, shaking her head. "We're all struggling to get used to the changes, I think."

Mr. Butler inclined his head.

"You seem to know a great deal about this," Phryne continued, looking up at him. "Something you picked up in the war, perhaps?"

Mr. Butler frowned.

"In my experience, Miss Fisher," he said quietly after a moment, "it was at the end, after the war, when we'd all had done with glamour and the triumph of being survivors and returning heroes that we learned the most about human suffering. It was then that the real darkness set in….when the camaraderie of battle had faded, and all we had left were the wounds and the memories. There is nothing so terribly beautiful, in the end, about being a hero."

Phryne, who rarely ever heard Mr. Butler talk about his experiences either in or after the war, wasn't entirely sure what to say.

"Forgive me, Miss," murmured Mr. Butler. "I had no intention of embarking on such a very gloomy subject. I seem to have gotten a bit carried away."

"You're entitled to your memories, Mr. Butler," replied Phryne simply, "even if they aren't particularly lovely ones. I can't help but feel that Jack, too, is entitled to his suffering, in a way. He'd be furious with us if he knew that we were lying to him about the pills. It doesn't seem right…even if it is in his best interests."

Mr. Butler gave Phryne an entirely too shrewd sort of look.

"I can't help but agree with you that we may all be treating Mr. Robinson with a bit too much of the kid glove touch," he said, nodding. "If I may be so bold, Miss, although it's hardly my place to say-!"

"Say, do," insisted Phryne, giving him a wry sort of smile. "Go on. I'm listening."

"Well, Miss," continued Mr. Butler, not quite meeting Phryne's eyes, "weren't you the one, only minutes ago, who insisted that it would be best for Dorothy to conduct today's investigation, in order to save Mr. Robinson the trouble of having to do a job that he particularly wouldn't have liked?"

Phryne shook her head impatiently.

"Oh, that," she said. "I didn't mean a word of that. I don't want Jack going to speak to Sergeant Carrington because it has suddenly occurred to me, and I wish it had done so sooner, that Jack might be doing himself a serious disservice by getting involved with trying to siphon information from members of the police. If anyone else on the force gets wind of the fact that Jack's turned private eye, then it's very possible that they'll refuse point-blank to sign Hugh's petition. If they do, then that's the end of real police work for Jack, and much as I love the idea of working with him on a more intimate basis, I think we're all holding out hope that there may still be a possibility, however slight, that Hugh's plan might actually work."

"I see," said Mr. Butler.

"I only gave Jack the line about being worried about his delicate sensibilities," finished Phryne, "because I'm reasonably certain that Hugh doesn't want Jack to know about the petition."

Mr. Butler raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," said Phryne, realizing with a jolt just exactly what she'd said.

Mr. Butler only nodded.

"I…yes, well, you might have a point after all," said Phryne, laughing ruefully under her breath. "Perhaps we are all treating Jack a bit too much like an invalid, and not enough like a man. There seem to be a few too many secrets that we're keeping from him…a few too many little mysteries. No wonder he's becoming so frustrated."

"Quite so," agreed Mr. Butler. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, Miss, then I think that Mr. Robinson has quite enough nursemaids, what with Dr. MacMillan, myself, Dorothy and Constable Collins all hovering constantly around to try and keep him comfortable. What he needs the most right now, I think, is an ally."

"A partner in crime," whispered Phryne.

Mr. Butler nodded.

Phryne thought back to the events of the night before, and the horribly inopportune circumstance of Jack walking in on her kissing Algie goodbye. Jack had looked so lonely then and at the same time so genuinely furious with her that it had been startling and sad all at the same time.

"I'm not entirely sure," she said quietly, frowning to herself, "that Jack will be so willing to have me as his ally…not now. I'm afraid he's rather angry with me for a certain encounter he witnessed at the party, last night. I'm not sure you've had the chance to meet Mr. Algernon Garfield."

"I took his name at the door, Miss," murmured Mr. Butler. "I also noticed when he left halfway through the evening…and when he didn't return."

"Yes, well," sighed Phryne, "Jack would have preferred if he hadn't shown up in the first place…or if I'd sent him packing with just a little more rancor and speed."

"No doubt," returned Mr. Butler. "I have also noticed, Miss, purely in passing, that you've had significantly fewer male visitors come to stay, as of late. None at all, in fact, who've required my services since you returned from England, although I know that you've certainly had several hopeful gentleman callers whom I've had to inform that you weren't at home, and who've left again disappointed."

Phryne raised an eyebrow at him.

"That," she said, laughing a little, "really may be a bit presumptuous, Mr. Butler. I'm surprised at you…and no end of delighted. You'd make quite an excellent private detective yourself, you know."

"My apologies, Miss," said Mr. Butler, smiling and not looking apologetic at all.

Phryne just shook her head in some amusement and returned her attention to her coffee.

"I wonder," remarked Mr. Butler, not necessarily to anyone in particular, "if Mr. Robinson has noted the circumstance of your significantly less crowded social calendar."

"I doubt it," retorted Phryne. "He's probably a bit preoccupied with other things, just at the moment."

"Certainly," agreed Mr. Butler. Bending down, he absently removed the dish that contained only the remnants of Phryne's last scone. "In that case, I suppose we can afford to be patient with him for some time longer."

Phryne smiled into her coffee.

* * *

A little over half an hour later, Jack and Mac returned to the kitchen where Phryne, Cec and Bert were all waiting.

"Morning, Inspector," mumbled Bert, nodding amiably at Jack. "Ready for a ride?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," muttered Jack. He was a bit red-faced and looking strained, but not any more so than usual, and Phryne did her best not to let herself get too sympathetic.

"Excellent," she said, passing him his coat. "We're going to be a bit late for our appointment, but only fashionably so, and I'm sure that's fine. I have a suspicion that Miss Gaveston's the type to be more likely to open up to a fellow woman than to a strange man, so perhaps while I question her, you might try working on the rest of the hotel staff. I understand that there's a whole gaggle of young, recently-hired maids who'd probably be no end of flustered and delighted by a mysteriously handsome private investigator like yourself. That might be a good place to start. Of course, I haven't told anyone about you, so no one will be expecting you…and that gives you the element of surprise, which may or may not work in our favor. We'll find out."

Jack cleared his throat.

"I was under the impression," he said unexpectedly, "that we'd be conducting these interrogations together."

Phryne raised an eyebrow at him.

"What's wrong, Jack," she asked teasingly. "Worried that you're too out of practice?"

"I am not in the habit," he returned coldly, "of making inquiries without some official standing to leverage."

"Sure you are," countered Phryne, shrugging. "Just think of this like an undercover assignment. You've investigated without your badge countless times, and frankly the lack of the detective's credentials might only add to your persuasive charm."

"I thought that ladies loved a man in uniform," muttered Jack, giving Phryne a rueful half-smile.

"Oh, we do," she assured him, "but I think the ladies of the Gaveston hotel are most likely to be attracted to that which doesn't make them feel threatened, and lord only knows what sort of vice might go on in that place behind closed doors. I certainly hope that we're going to find out. Shall we, then?"

She offered him her arm, and he looked at it for a moment with an eyebrow raised. Not bothering to wait for him to decide to play along, Phryne bent down ever so slightly and linked her arm through his, while Cec came around behind to take control of the chair.

It was definitely a bit awkward, but they made their way out to the front step arm and arm, with Cec pushing the chair and Bert following along behind. When they reached the top step, Bert darted out in front and hurried down to the cab, leaving the rest of them waiting for him in the doorway.

It was only a moment before Bert returned, carrying a large unwieldy piece of rectangle-cut wood in his arms. Cec abandoned the chair, and together they propped the wood slab against the front step, so that it served as a sort of makeshift ramp leading down to the pavement.

"Sorry," muttered Cec. "Best we could do at short notice. We'll fix it up a bit before tomorrow."

Jack gave the wooden slab a very dubious look.

"Don't worry," insisted Bert, "it'll hold. Sturdy as hell, that thing; made it myself, Inspector."

"Oi," barked Cec, shooting Bert a sharp look.

"Uh, sorry," mumbled Bert. " _Mr._ Robinson."

Cec just shook his head, then returned to the top step to take Jack's chair again, while Bert braced the ramp from below. Slowly, Jack made his way down the ramp, looking deeply uncertain all the way down, until he somehow landed on the pavement at the bottom with only a slight bump and a rather startled look on his face.

"See? Nothing to it," said Bert triumphantly.

Jack shot Phryne an exasperated look, and she smiled, shaking her head at him. Slowly, he started to smile as well.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson," he muttered. "And Mr. Yates. I…wasn't entirely sure that I was going to survive that descent, but I'm delighted to have been proven wrong."

Aw, 'ye of little faith,'" muttered Bert. "Come on, then, into the cab we go."

Without further ado, Cec and Bert heaved Jack's chair into the cab, leaving Phryne to climb into the front seat herself.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** Right, so this episode is, again, taking longer than I expected. I thought we were going to get to the actual investigation in this chapter, but we seem to have had some other things to do first.

I'll try to write the next chapter either this evening or tomorrow morning, this time ACTUALLY chronicling the events of the investigation. Sorry, this story's kind of a slow developer. Lots to say, don't want to rush it.

And now, back to the misery of my amazingly long to-do list. I cannot WAIT for Friday!


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Author's Note:** Looks like G and I are gonna get a little break from the real world. Earlier this month, for his birthday, I offered to take him to Baltimore Comic Con if he was interested, because there's going to be a comic book artist there he absolutely idolizes. He tells me that he did take the day off, so it looks like we're going after all!

I'm not sure what use I'll be at a comic convention (I've never read a comic in my life), but it'll be nice to get out of the house for a bit. G says he wants to dress up (I believe the term is 'cosplay'), so that should be interesting. Hah. (I will not be cosplaying.)

It's always nice to see him getting excited about things, and maybe if I'm extra nice, he'll let us go to the aquarium afterwards!

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

As soon as Jack and Phryne arrived at the hotel, a slim middle-aged woman in spectacles and a trim blue dress came hurrying over to meet them.

"Miss Fisher," she announced in an unexpectedly high but clipped little voice. "You've come at last!"

"Miss Gaveston," returned Phryne, smiling. "Please, allow me to introduce Mr. Jack Robinson, my investigative partner. Jack, this is Edith Gaveston, present manager of the famed Gaveston hotel."

Miss Gaveston looked at Jack, widened her eyes in some surprise, paused for a moment, and then gave him exactly the sort of slightly too-bright, overly-sympathetic smile that he'd been dreading and was now getting too used to seeing from any confused but well-meaning individuals eager to reassure him on the street that there wasn't anything wrong with his being a cripple.

"How do you do, Miss Gaveston," he muttered, extending a hand. After a brief, awkward moment, Miss Gaveston accepted it.

"Ever so happy to have you with us, Mr. Robinson," she said sweetly.

Jack coughed and did his best to hide his annoyance. Phryne rested a comforting hand ever so briefly on his shoulder, keeping her attention on their hostess.

"I'm so very glad you've come," Miss Gaveston went on, shaking her head and sighing a little to herself. "I do hope that you can make some sense of this, Miss Fisher. Of course, I've heard your name and I'm familiar with some of your local successes, and the police don't seem to be doing anything at all about poor Mr. Dormer. If anyone's going to save the good old hotel, then it's much more likely to be you."

"We'll do everything we can to help, Miss Gaveston," Phryne assured her. "Would you mind terribly if we started by asking you a few questions? Then, of course, we'll want to speak to any of the staff who was working at the time of the incident."

"Quite so, of course," agreed Miss Gaveston levelly, seating herself in a chair behind the counter and nodding at them. "Ask me anything you think will be helpful. Oh, and of course, you'll want to speak to Pierce. Pierce! Come over here, darling. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Miss Gaveston turned and called over her shoulder, and after a moment a door opened and a tall, pale-skinned middle-aged man appeared, with well-cropped salt and pepper hair, and a questioning look in his large, blue eyes.

"This is my brother, Pierce Gaveston," announced Miss Gaveston. "Father left us joint ownership of the hotel in the will, so he is, I suppose, technically  _my_  partner in this business."

Pierce laughed a little too pleasantly, and waved that away with one dismissive hand.

"We may be partners in the will," he agreed in a deeper, more attractive voice than Jack had hoped for, "but Edith's undoubtedly the brains of this operation. She's got a skill for organizational management that I'm afraid I've always lacked."

Pierce glanced over at Phryne and gave her a helplessly charming sort of shrug and a grin.

Phryne smiled back, and as Phryne and Pierce's eyes met, Jack felt himself bristling with perverse but immediate dislike for the client's brother.

 _Don't let her get to you,_ he reminded himself.  _This is ridiculous. Does she have to smile at every single man we encounter? For that matter, did there have to be a perfectly attractive, distinguished older gentleman lying in wait for us the minute we walk into the hotel? He's probably reasonably wealthy, too…the heir to a thriving hotel business, apparently._

Of course, Pierce crossed to Phryne, reached for her hand, and kissed it. Phryne's smile only broadened, and she let her hand linger in his for a moment before pulling it away.

"Charmed," she told him.

Jack let out a short, exasperated little sigh and decided to take no further notice.

 _We're not going to get anywhere with this if I start having irrational feelings before the investigation's even begun,_ he reminded himself.  _We're here to help Collins solve a murder, not to delve any farther into the mystery of Phryne Fisher's sexual proclivity for anything tall dark, and living._

"Pierce," continued Miss Gaveston, "this is-!"

"I don't require an introduction," murmured Mr. Gaveston. "We've met before, Miss Fisher, although it's been a few years, now."

"At Portia Munroe's around-the-world themed gala, right before she sailed off to the states," returned Phryne, nodding. "Of course I remember you, Pierce, although I confess I had no idea that you were  _the_  Pierce Gaveston of the renowned Gaveston hotel. What a pleasure to meet you again, more properly."

"I've never had a dance partner quite like you since that night," murmured Pierce.

Phryne laughed.

"I was terribly drunk, at the time," she reminded him. "I could barely stand up on my own two feet."

"All the better," retorted Gaveston." You spent the whole dance draped over my arm…exactly the way I like it."

Jack gritted his teeth.

"Miss Gaveston," he said, perhaps a bit louder than he really needed to, "perhaps you might begin by telling us as much as you can about the events surrounded Mr. Arthur Dormer's death."

"Of course," agreed Miss Gaveston, nodding curtly. "Obviously, I remember it all as if it was yesterday. How could I possibly forget? Let me see."

"It was a Friday morning," began Mr. Gaveston, "and I was taking a walk along the creek outside with one of our regular patrons…an elderly lady named Mrs. Tashet, who occasionally needs a little assistance getting around."

"How very kind of you," murmured Phryne.

"Its' only one of the many hospitality services that we offer here at the Gaveston hotel," replied Mr. Gaveston glibly.

 _How wonderful,_ thought Jack bitterly.  _He's a good Samaritan, too. Of course._

"Not quite, Pierce," corrected Miss Gaveston mildly. "It was the Thursday morning, not the Friday. In any case, Pierce was walking Mrs. Tashet along the creek when they noticed something bobbing along in the current. When he realized that it was, in fact, a dead body, Pierce rushed back to the hotel to sound the alarm."

"I would have attempted to fish him out myself," interjected Pierce, "except that I was concerned about the effect that the discovery might have had on Mrs. Tashet. I wanted to make sure she was safely back at the hotel as quickly as possible."

He smiled his wide, helpful smile, but Jack only raised an eyebrow.

"It's a very good thing that you didn't fish the body out yourself, Mr. Gaveston," he said quietly. "If you had done so, it might have been considered tampering with evidence. It's incredibly unwise ever to move a body before the police have arrived."

"Jack," hissed Phryne.

"I had hoped, at the time,' replied Mr. Gaveston calmly, "that the poor man might not, in fact, be a body quite yet. Unfortunately, when the police did finally show up to get him out of the creek, I was informed that he'd been dead for some time already."

"How long, exactly?" Phryne frowned.

Miss Gaveston only shook her head sadly.

"We were never properly informed," she said. "I've no idea, unfortunately. Certainly the police must know, but they didn't see fit to share the information with us. There's very little, in fact, that they did share, although I understand that when poor Mr. Dormer came out of the creek, the little finger on his left hand was missing…as though it had been sawed off!"

"And…you're quite sure that the finger wasn't missing before," said Jack. "The last time you'd seen him, for instance, perhaps the day before, had he been in possession of all ten of his fingers? Forgive me if that seems like a ridiculous question, but it may be relevant to the case."

Miss Gaveston nodded.

"I'm quite sure he had," she said, "and it's not ridiculous at all. Of course, if he'd had some kind of accident or injury earlier that week, then that might have accounted for all the dried blood they found on his bedclothes…but again, I'm absolutely certain that nothing of the sort had taken place. Mr. Arthur came, in fact, in the middle of the very night before to assist me with a…well, with a rat that we found running around in the pantry, horribly enough, and I'm absolutely sure that he had every single one of his fingers at that time."

"A rat," gasped Mr. Gaveston, staring at his sister. "You told me nothing about that, Edith."

Miss Gaveston only wrung her hands distractedly.

"Well, we have been a little busy, dear," she mumbled. "I'm afraid I haven't exactly had the time to waste worrying about it."

Jack and Phryne exchanged a quick, sharp look.

"Blood on the bedclothes," whispered Phryne.

Jack nodded.

"It seems," he said quietly, "that we may have located one potential scene for our murder."

"And we've barely been here ten minutes," added Phryne, looking pleased. "We're coming along quite nicely, Jack, even if we are a bit out of practice."

"I don't believe the murder could have taken place in the bedroom," countered Mr. Gaveston smoothly. "As I understand it, Mr. Robinson, Mr. Dormer's death was due to asphyxiation…which would not, I am sure, leave bloody residue on his sheets."

He smiled again, and Jack glared at him, doing his best to force a smile in return.

"No," agreed Phryne pleasantly, "asphyxiation wouldn't, but the removal of the man's finger certainly might have, if the finger was hacked off while he was still alive."

"With your permission, Miss Gaveston," announced Jack, "I think we'd better have a look at Mr. Arthur Dormer's bedroom."

Nodding, Miss Gaveston got quickly up from her seat and came around the counter.

"Right away," she agreed, turning on her heel and starting down the passageway. "Follow me, then, Miss Fisher, Mr. Robinson. Mr. Arthur lived on the ground floor, and of course we haven't touched the place since his death, just in case the police ended up feeling at all like returning to examine it. Right this way."

She took off, her heels clicking efficiently against the floorboards as she disappeared with alarming speed through a door at the far end of the hall.

Jack turned to Phryne, only to find that Mr. Pierce Gaveston was in the process of gallantly offering her his arm.

"Shall, we Miss Fisher?" He grinned at her.

Much to Jack's surprise and disgust, Phryne linked her arm through Mr. Gaveston's and allowed him to lead her down the hallway at a slightly more sedate pace in his sister's wake.

Jack was left alone to grab the wheels of his chair and to wheel himself uncomfortably after them.

* * *

"Here it is," announced Mr. Gaveston, opening the creaky door to Mr. Arthur Dormer's room.

Jack noticed immediately that this cramped little room was nothing whatsoever like the relatively spacious servant's quarters enjoyed by Mr. Butler at the Fisher residence. This room, in fact, didn't do much credit at all to the famous Gaveston name.

"Just as I said," began Miss Gaveston, gingerly removing a pillow from the single, unmade bed and revealing what did look like a series of small blood spatters covering the top lip of the mattress. "The place hasn't been touched…and here, Miss Fisher, are your bloodstains."

Phryne and Jack leaned in to give the mattress a closer look.

"If you'll excuse me, both of you," announced Miss Gaveston, "then I'd really better be getting back to the desk. Don't hesitate to call me if there's anything you need, of course."

"Thank you very much, Miss Gaveston," said Phryne. "We'll do that. When we're done here, then we'd be very interested to see the room where the other victim, Mr. Appleton was found."

Miss Gaveston frowned.

"Oh, I'm afraid you won't find much there," she said. "The police have definitely been through that one, and they've overturned everything. You're unlikely to find any useful remains, but of course you're more than welcome to look. Just let me know when you're finished here, and I'll take you up."

Jack winced, and wondered to himself just how likely it was that this place had a working elevator.

"Come along, Pierce," called Miss Gaveston.

After a reluctant glance at Phryne, Pierce turned and headed out of the room with his sister, leaving Jack and Phryne alone.

"Jack," murmured Phryne. "Look at these stains. There's not enough blood here for something too large, but there may be just enough blood to account for the loss of a finger."

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"Have you ever seen someone's finger cut off, Miss Fisher?" He shook his head. "Significantly more blood gushes out of an open hand wound than you'd expect."

Phryne made a face.

"We'll need to take these sheets to the station for analysis," continued Jack, belatedly wishing he'd packed some rubber gloves to protect the sheets from his fingerprints. "We'll pass them off to Collins, and he can have them dealt with by tomorrow morning."

Almost as though she'd read his thought, Phryne whipped a pair of gloves out of her handbag, put them on, and delicately began gathering up the sheets.

"I don't think so," she said, shaking her head slightly. "We'd better not give them to Hugh, Jack, or to that precious Inspector Anderson of yours, either. Perhaps Mac might be able to do the analysis herself, without informing the official police."

Jack frowned.

"But that's unnecessary," he told her. "As we're working, theoretically at least, in conjunction with Collins, then it certainly makes the most sense to hand any potentially relevant evidence straight to him."

"I would really much rather," countered Phryne, "that we involve the police as little as possible in this investigation, Jack. You heard what Miss Gaveston said; they're hardly interested enough in this case to spare the time. Hugh's ridiculously busy with god knows what else, and there's no reason whatever why we can't have Mac sort this out herself. Think of how delightfully surprised Hugh will be when we show up with even more than potentially relevant evidence…but instead, with a possible solution to the case!"

Jack only shook his head firmly.

"I really don't think,' he began.

He never had a chance to finish the sentence.

Suddenly, there were footsteps in the hall outside, and the door to Mr. Dormer's room opened to reveal Miss Edith Gaveston looking concerned.

"I can barely believe it myself," she told them, "but there are some policemen here. It's that detective and the attractive young constable who showed up the first time, to look into Mr. Appleton's suicide. They're insisting on seeing this room, for whatever reason. I don't suppose they're friends of yours, Miss Fisher? Did you summon them?"

"Excellent," muttered Jack. "Perfect timing on Collins' part. Show them in here, Miss Gaveston, and we'll fill them in on what we've found."

Unexpectedly, Phryne shook her head.

"No, we won't," she said firmly. "They're not friends of ours, I'm afraid, and there might be some…well, unpleasantness, really, if they find that we're investigating without official permission."

Miss Gaveston blinked, then narrowed her eyes and nodded once.

"Understood," she said. "Right this way, then, and quickly please. Let's get you out of here before Pierce brings them to examine the room. We certainly wouldn't want any 'unpleasantness,' now would we?"

"What?" Jack stared.

Without giving them much time for comment on the matter, Miss Gaveston turned abruptly on her heel and clicked off down the hallway. Phryne grabbed hold of Jack's chair and wheeled him hastily after her, letting the door shut in their wake.

"Phryne, "demanded Jack. "What the hell-?"

"Hush, Jack," whispered Phryne. "Trust me on this one; it would be a terrible idea for us to be found here, particularly by Detective Anderson."

Jack could now hear the distinct sounds of Pierce Gaveston and Detective Anderson talking in loud voices as they strode down the hall towards Jack, Phryne, and their hostess.

"Quick," announced Miss Gaveston abruptly. "In here, quietly."

She grasped the handle of a door, pulled it open and then stepped away.

Immediately, without even looking at the room in question, Phryne wheeled Jack inside and then shut the door, plunging them both into darkness.

Outside the door, Jack could hear Miss Gaveston already clicking her way back down the hallway, murmuring something unintelligible, presumably to the approaching policemen.

It was only when he felt the pressure on his right knee and the tickle of Phryne's hair against his chin that Jack realized with a jolt that Phryne was now sitting delicately on his lap, making sure to keep her weight off of his left leg.

"Sorry, Jack," she whispered, "but this closet doesn't appear to be comfortably designed for the accommodation of two people. This is really the only way that I can fit. Don't worry, I'm sure it won't be too much longer. We can sneak out as soon as they've gone past."

At something of a loss for what to say, Jack opened his mouth, then shut it again and frowned.

"I'm not hurting you," murmured Phryne, "am I?"

She sounded uncharacteristically serious, and Jack sighed, wishing he was strong enough not to be thrilled that she'd at least elected to touch him in a place, this time, in which he could actually feel the contact.

"No," he mumbled. "It…doesn't hurt at all."

The weight on his now overused leg wasn't exactly comfortable, but Jack couldn't have denied that he relished the closeness, and so he didn't try.

* * *

 **Author's End Note;** Aaaaand we're leaving off in the middle of an episode, again, but at least I've left you on a delicious cliffhanger, this time, instead of a mercilessly angsty one.

I'll try to write more before bed, since it might prove hard to write tomorrow while I'm out of town enjoying…comics? I don't even know.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Author's Note:** I…should really be working on my rehearsal schedule and the audition sides for the production that I'm holding auditions for this coming Friday (a week from today.)

That is obviously not what I am doing right now. I am writing fanfiction instead.

...since the auditions ides have to get done, this means that it's going to be a late night, and yet I have no regrets. Nope. None at all.

My beautiful roommate Mel is in the kitchen baking like sixteen different kinds of cookies right now, though, so something tells me that if I skip the gym tonight, I will seriously regret it.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

"What exactly," hissed Jack after a few startled moments of silence, "are we doing in this closet?"

"Hiding, Jack," whispered Phryne simply. "Just until it's safe for us to make a discreet getaway. I know it can't be too comfortable for you, although if you even hazard the suggestion that I'm too heavy to maintain this positon for long, I assure you that you're going to regret it."

She challenged him with her eyes, but Jack, beginning to get fed up with the nonsense and agitated by her delicious closeness, wasn't amused.

"So I gathered," retorted Jack. "And why, precisely, are we hiding?"

Phryne must have noticed the slight edge to his voice, because her smile faded a little bit, and she shifted her weight ever so slightly on his lap.

"I'd rather not be discovered by the official police, just at the moment," she informed him. "Somehow, I doubt that either Hugh or Detective Anderson would be too happy to find us here, albeit for very different reasons. Best, I think, if we keep our investigational work to ourselves for the time being."

"Only moments ago," Jack reminded her quietly, "you assured me that you thought Collins would be thrilled to receive our assistance."

"Jack," began Phryne placatingly, but Jack only shook his head at her.

"I suspect," he muttered, swallowing hard, "that your reticence to reveal our presence at the scene has very little to do with any concerns on my constable's part, and everything to do with a lack of desire to give up your fun."

Phryne's expression clouded slightly, and she began to look sad, but Jack found that he couldn't seem to bring himself to stop, now that he'd begun, no matter how much he suddenly wanted to. It was as though the words were biting their way out of his mouth on their own account, and he could feel his head starting to spin a little bit, probably from the stuffiness of the closet and the dizziness that being in intimate contact with Phryne Fisher always managed to elicit.

"No doubt the dashing Mr. Pierce Gaveston only adds to the allure of the case," Jack shot at her. "You certainly seem quite taken with him. You could barely take your eyes off him when we first arrived."

"It's always exciting, suddenly and unexpectedly meeting an old flame after so many years," murmured Phryne. "That's all, Jack. It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

"You have such an impressive contingent of old flames," muttered Jack darkly. "I wonder what Mr. Algernon Garfield thought of that…or didn't he know? Didn't you tell him about the rest of us pining admirers, or were we left, as it were, hiding in the closet?"

Phryne only shook her head.

"This is about Algie," she murmured. "Obviously that hurt you more than I'd realized. I never meant-!

"It's not about 'Algie,'" retorted Jack, gritting his teeth. "It's about…all of the men. All of the mysterious, dashing, exciting men who make up the harem of adventurers swaggering their way in and out of your life, Phryne. How many of them, I wonder, did you 'care about,' the very same way you so glibly claim to 'care' about me?"

"I've never cared about anyone quite the way I care about you, Jack," whispered Phryne, simply and seriously.

Jack, with his mouth half-open, already on his way to another biting remark, suddenly stopped, startled, and fell silent.

"I thought you already understood that," Phryne went on under her breath. "Perhaps I should have said it before. Perhaps it was a mistake to say it, even now. I'm not sure."

Jack swallowed hard.

"What exactly," whispered Phryne, "is it that you want from me, Jack? I've already told you how I feel. I've never lied about that, or tried to lead you on with pretty promises that don't mean anything. I can't pretend to be the kind of easy, comfortable woman that Rosie was. What more can I give you but a part of my heart and the truth?"

Jack took a quick breath, then dropped his gaze angrily to his own shoes, wondering if he was more furious with her, or with himself; deeply ashamed of having unleashed that inexplicable tirade of emotion.

"You know perfectly well what I want," he muttered. "And I…I know just as well that I can't ask for it. That I shouldn't ask. I wouldn't presume."

Phryne only frowned at him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered miserably. "I'm terribly sorry, Phryne, I…I don't know what's come over me. That was inexcusable. I'm not myself."

"I know," murmured Phryne.

"I feel," Jack said desperately, shutting his eyes for a moment, "as though my head is on fire."

There was a throbbing in Jack's temple now that really was unbearably fierce, and when he opened his eyes again, he found that Phryne's expression had softened.

"I'm sorry, too," she told him.

Jack just nodded curtly, uncertain if he trusted himself to speak again.

Phryne's hand closed over Jack's and she squeezed it gently for just a moment. Jack, still unable to speak, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm by way of wordless apology, closing his eyes as he released it again.

At first, Jack thought that Phryne had withdrawn her hand again once he'd let go, but when he opened his eyes and looked down, he found that it was resting gently on the knee of his left leg.

"Perhaps," she suggested, "we'd best call a halt to our investigation for today. We can call Cec and Bert from the phone in the chemist's next door, and then we'll get these blood spatters to Mac as quickly as we can. Tomorrow is another day."

Jack just shook his head.

"I'm all right," he assured her.

"No you're not," countered Phryne. "You've been without your medication for days. Your brain is probably struggling with withdrawal from the morphine. That's probably why your head is burning."

"I have not," countered Jack uncertainly, "been careless with my medicines."

"Mac hasn't given them to you since last week," Phryne informed him. "It's some sort of placeholder treatment to stave off the anxiety, or so Mr. Butler informed me this morning. I tell you now because the treatment in question doesn't appear to be having the desired effect."

Jack frowned.

"I…see," he mumbled.

"And," added Phryne, "while we're playing the game of complete disclosure, Jack, you might as well know that the reason I'm trying to keep our investigation secret from the police is that I don't want you to lose your upstanding reputation with the official force. It's always possible that they might find some reason to reinstate you, but they're far less likely to make efforts in that direction if they're annoyed with you for throwing in your lot with meddlesome Miss Fisher."

"You'd be so willing, in that case," muttered Jack, hazarding a miserable half-smile, "to give up your new partner?"

"If that's what he'd prefer," countered Phryne, "then yes, I think I would be. You're a policeman, Jack, and it's a huge part of who you are and how you think. I'm sure you'd be much happier in City South than you'll ever be as my Watson….or even as my Sherlock."

Jack took a deep breath.

"Phryne," he began, genuinely disgusted with himself for his earlier outburst and still uncertain how to make amends, either with her or with himself.

Phryne only shook her head.

"Nothing else needs to be said," she assured him. "Now you know everything that I do, and we're both out in the light where we belong, with no more secrets. All we have left to hide from now is the illustrious Detective Anderson….and I'm sure it won't be much longer."

Phryne wasn't wrong. Only moments later, the door to the closet was flung open, and Miss Gaveston stood framed in the doorway, looking annoyed and relieved at the same time. Phryne jumped off of Jack's lap just in time, and Jack did his best to look a bit more composed than he felt as they confronted the hotel manager.

"They're gone," she assured them. "Not even sure why they bothered to drop by. They had a quick look at the room, apparently didn't find anything that interested them, and then went about their merry way without even so much as stopping for a few penetrating questions. Honestly…"

Phryne smiled and pulled out her handbag.

"It's very likely," she told Miss Gaveston, producing the bloodstained sheets, "that they would have been much more interested if they'd managed to find these. As it is, I think we'll hurry along right now to a well-connected friend of mine to have these stains analyzed. We'll be back again tomorrow morning to examine the room upstairs."

Miss Gaveston's eyes lit up when she saw the sheets, and she nodded.

"Excellent," she said, stepping out of the way to let Phryne push Jack's chai through. "At last, some real progress! I can't tell you how relieved and delighted I am, Miss Fisher, and of course Pierce will be ever so pleased. He's just stepped out for a few minutes, but he'll be terribly sorry to have missed you."

"Please, do give him my regards," asked Phryne. "Perhaps we'll see him tomorrow. You do know how to reach me, of course, if anything important should come up in the meantime."

Miss Gaveston, still all smiles efficiency and curt gratitude followed them out to the front door, then watched from the entranceway as Phryne wheeled Jack out into the sunlight.

* * *

When Jack and Phryne, courtesy of Cec and Bert, arrived back at Miss Fisher's residence, Mr. Butler greeted them at the door.

"You have visitors, Miss," he said, relieving them both of their coats. "Dorothy and Constable Collins arrived only a few minutes ago."

"Really?" Phryne shot Jack a surprised look. "Hugh's here? He only left a few minutes before we did. He seems to have made excellent time. I must confess, Jack, I'm beginning to get a little frustrated with Cec and Bert. I'm quite sure that we could have been at least ten minutes earlier than we were, if only they hadn't taken that detour or made so many stops along the way."

"If by 'stops,' you're referring to traffic lights," retorted Jack, "then I assure you that although we certainly could have made better time, we're more than likely to have been pulled over by the police before we'd ever made it home, at your breakneck pace."

"I'm never pulled over," Phryne assured him.

"Police presence has recently increased in the area during high-traffic times of day," Jack informed her.

"Oh." Phryne sighed. "What a bore. Well, at least you can't blame me, this time. I was in England when the police suddenly became more interested in local traffic patterns."

"I'm still not convinced," muttered Jack, "that the heavier enforcement hasn't come in response to complaints about your driving, Miss Fisher."

"Miss Phryne." Dorothy emerged from the parlor and stood frowning at them, clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her and chewing unhappily on her lip.

"Dot." Phryne frowned. "This is a surprise. What is it? What's wrong?"

Dorothy cast a quick, uncertain look at Jack, and then turned her attention back to Phryne.

"If you don't mind, Miss," she murmured, "may I speak to you privately for a moment? I'm…terribly sorry, Inspector-! I mean, Mr. Robinson. Won't take a second."

"Please," said Jack, "take all the time you need."

He wheeled himself around the corner and into his own borrowed bedroom, leaving Phryne and Dorothy alone in the foyer.

"Miss," said Dorothy urgently, the moment Jack had shut the door behind him, "We have a…small problem."

Phryne sighed.

"I'm afraid," she said, "that it's been a day of rather large and uncompromising problems, Dot. A small, distracting problem might actually come as a nice change."

"I doubt it, Miss," returned Dorothy. "It's about Hugh, actually…or, well, no, not actually about Hugh, but rather about his investigation, and about Inspector Anderson. They were at that hotel today; the Gaveston hotel, where Mr. Appleton's body was found."

"I know," returned Phryne. "We just missed them…just barely."

Dorothy widened her eyes in surprise.

"Oh," she gasped. Well then…that's why."

"Why?" Phryne frowned. "Why what, Dot? Let's not be mysterious. I'm not sure I could take any more mysteries today."

By way of explanation, Dorothy reached into her handbag and produced a large, silver hatpin.

"Detective Anderson found this in the late caretaker's bedroom, Miss," sighed Dorothy. "Hugh says that he got very excited, and announced that he had 'finally made a break in the case!' Presumably he thinks that the pin must belong to the prime suspect…who, of course, they've yet to identify."

Dorothy held out the pin, and Phryne accepted it.

"It is yours," hazarded Dorothy. "Isn't it, Miss? Hugh recognized it immediately. Detective Anderson, no doubt, thinks that one hatpin is just exactly like another hatpin but yours are larger and a bit sturdier, like this one."

"I wouldn't want to lose my hat every time I went driving, now, would I?" Phryne frowned at the pin. "Yes…it certainly does look like one of mine. Well done, Hugh! He's turning into quite the fine investigator after all, isn't he, Dot? No doubt he'll be a detective in his own right, one day soon."

Dorothy gave Phryne an uncomfortable sort of smile.

"So," sighed Phryne, "in that case, I presume that you're here to tell me that I'm about to become Detective Anderson's prime suspect. Is that it? That certainly hasn't happened for a while. I suppose making friends with the highest-ranking local police Detective does have it's advantages."

Dorothy quickly shook her head.

"Oh, no, Miss," she insisted quickly. "No, I…we couldn't have that, could we? I've taken care of that already."

Phryne raised an eyebrow.

"Taken care of it?" She frowned. "How exactly did you do that?"

"By substituting the pin," said Dorothy simply. "I've kept this one, and Hugh's put another one its place…a more generic-looking one that I picked up from the store on the way here. I'm sure Detective Anderson won't even notice the difference. He's hardly what I'd call an observant man."

Dorothy made an exasperated sort of "tsk" sound in her throat. Phryne just shook her head, genuinely impressed.

"Tampering with evidence, Dot," she said quietly. "That's a serious crime. Hugh could lose his standing in the force, or even his job. It's hardly worth it. I've been called in for police questioning on hundreds of other occasions. I'm sure I'd be perfectly fine this time, even if I did have to fend off, however briefly, accusations of murdering a man I've never met."

"It's not only that," insisted Dorothy. "You don't want Detective Anderson finding out about your involvement in this case, do you? For your sake, and for Mr. Robinson's."

"Well…yes, that's certainly a point," muttered Phryne. "What does Hugh say? No doubt he's absolutely furious with me. I suppose it can't be helped."

Dorothy shook her head.

"He's not angry," she assured Phryne. "Not really, but I don't think there's much hope of us covering up successfully for you a second time. Please, Miss…be a little more careful. If not for your sake, than for Mr. Robinson's…and for Hugh's."

Phryne nodded.

"I will, Dot," she said. "I promise you. Careless of me to leave the hatpin in the first place. I suppose it's just as bad as Jack fears…I really must be losing my touch, after all."

"Never, Miss," murmured Dorothy. "And even if you are, I'm sure it'll only take a little while longer to re-learn all your old tricks. Even out of practice, you're a better detective any day than that horrible Anderson and his ridiculous cronies."

"You're not doing too badly yourself, Dot," countered Phryne, smiling. "Covering up evidence and tampering with misleading clues…well, I suppose if you get bored with being a housewife, you might try your hand at becoming a criminal mastermind. I've always thought you had just the right sort of talented spark for that line of work."

"Miss Phryne." Dorothy looked startled and scandalized. "Don't…please don't even suggest a thing like that. I could never."

Phryne just laughed.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** …

This just in. My boyfriend and my roommate are INCREDIBLY LOUD PEOPLE. It has been super hard to concentrate while writing this chapter because of all their noise!  
I am terribly sorry if there are more typos than usual. I will do my best to fix them all.

Oh, and PS: I have a confession to make. 

I willingly admit that the packing Jack's recovery, in this story, is very slightly off. I am doing my best to stay as realistic as possible, but I've sped up a couple of things ever so slightly, and I've slightly slowed down a few others for the sake of making the story readable. Hopefully it's not too noticeable, but those of you with a medical background may have picked up on it. Thank you for continuing to be so patient with me! 


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Author's Note:** Well, Comic Con yesterday was an…interesting experience.

I wrote a pretty long blurb about it, but it was too long to use as an author's note, so I've posted it to my tumblr ( **ariooc** ) which is, as always, accessible through my website ( **.com** ). Feel free to go there if you'd like to hear about the emotional rollercoaster that was comic con, and what I learned about comics, writing, my boyfriend, and the nerd universe.

Here, let's just focus on the story.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

That evening after dinner, while Phryne was having a glass of wine in the parlor and trying to collect her thoughts about the events of the day, Jack unexpectedly wheeled himself in to join her.

He'd been shut up in his room ever since they'd returned from the Gaveston, and Phryne honestly hadn't been sure she'd see him again before bed.

"Good evening, Jack," she said, trying not to show how relieved she was that he'd emerged at last.

Jack just nodded at her.

"I…hope I'm not interrupting you," he said quietly.

"No, not at all," insisted Phryne. "Please, join me. I was just…reflecting on the case."

That wasn't entirely what Phryne had been reflecting on, and Jack must have noticed the waver in her voice, because he raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"Can I get you anything?" Phryne put down her glass of wine. "I believe there's some lemonade in the kitchen."

Jack shrugged.

"If what you say about my medication withdrawal is true," he said, "then I don't see any reason why I can't join you in a glass of wine, if you'll have me."

"I'm not certain," murmured Phryne, "that that's such a good idea."

Jack gave her a rueful sort of smile.

"The wine," he asked simply, "or the company?"

Wheeling himself over to Phryne's side, Jack surprised her by lining the wheelchair up with the sofa and powerfully pushing himself out of the chair with both arms to seat himself beside her. The look on his face showed that it was a bit of a strain, but he did it with much more confidence than she'd ever seen him do it before, and Phryne began feeling just a tiny bit better in the thought that maybe his recovery really was coming along as well as Mr. Butler has suggested.

 _Mac did say something about delicious upper body muscles,_ she reminded herself with a little smile.

"Very well, then," she sighed, turning and reaching for a wine glass, "but just the one…and you're not to tell Mac, or Dot, or anyone else, for that matter. This will be our little secret."

"Always," agreed Jack.

Phryne poured him a glass. Jack accepted it, then raised it up and looked directly into her eyes.

"To our little secrets," he said levelly.

Phryne felt her heart starting to flutter a little bit as they toasted together, and she hid her confusion by taking a swift sip of her wine.

"A penny," suggested Jack, "for your thoughts, although in my experience they're worth a good deal more."

Phryne laughed a little under her breath.

"There's not very much to think about just yet, I suppose," she told him. "We've a good deal more to go on now than we had before, but we're still a far cry from making any real headway with this case."

"Yes," agreed Jack, grimacing at his leg. "I'm afraid I have to agree, mostly due to my inability to function like a rational grown man for longer than a few hours at a stretch."

Phryne shook her head.

"No," she insisted, "it's not your fault."

"Since we've decided to be honest with each other," countered Jack, "then I think we'd better accept that it is."

He was still smiling ever so slightly, but it wasn't a particularly happy smile. Phryne let out an exasperated little sigh and decided to change the subject.

"Don't get upset, Jack," she began, "but it appears that I almost became the prime suspect in our double murder investigation this morning."

Jack frowned.

"When we got back from the hotel," she informed him, "Dot presented me with one of my hatpins, which I'd apparently dropped at the scene of the crime while we were examining the bedsheets. For once, although I'm surprised that he exerted himself so far, Detective Anderson appears to have picked up on a 'clue.'"

Jack's eyes narrowed.

"You're never that careless," he said simply.

Phryne only shrugged.

"I'm not," she agreed, "but apparently I was, and poor Hugh had to give the clue in question to Dot, who hastily swapped it out with another hairpin in order to protect my identity and the sanctity of our investigation. The worst part is, I never even asked her to do it. Dot's becoming quite the talented young detective on her own…although I did warn her that if she continues down this road, she's more likely to grow into a James Moriarty to be reckoned with, rather than a Sherlock. Didn't Hugh say anything to you about it?"

Slowly, Jack shook his head.

"He did not," he sighed, "but this does explain the dark looks that Collins kept giving me all through dinner. So…the truth is out at last."

"Only to our allies," returned Phryne. "I'm sure our secret's still safe enough."

She smiled, but Jack didn't return the smile, and for a long moment he said nothing at all.

"I preferred it before," he said, "at the hotel, when you promised me that we'd be out in the light, and that there wouldn't be any more secrets."

Phryne's smile faded.

"We are talking," she reminded him carefully, "of two entirely different circumstances."

Jack didn't seem to care.

"Phryne," he asked seriously. "Why did you come home from England?"

Phryne glanced down into her wine glass.

"I'm sure you know," she said quietly. "I've told you already...more than once."

Jack nodded.

"Maybe I'm still struggling to believe it," he said. "Maybe it still doesn't feel…entirely real."

"In fact," whispered Phryne, "I'm at a bit of a disadvantage. Recent events seem to have tricked all sorts of unexpected confessions out of me, Jack and I can't take them back, now…but you still haven't said a word to me about your feelings on the subject."

She gave him her best attempt at a challenging look, and Jack looked surprised.

"I never…" He frowned, shaking his head. "I've always been careful not to force my feelings upon you. I thought that was what you'd prefer. Do you….want me to tell you?"

Phryne bit her lip, feeling unexpectedly small and confused, which wasn't at all an experience she cared for.

"I don't know," she murmured. "It's a terrifying thought, isn't it? The idea that a few little words might catapult us across some line that we may never be able to return from."

"I'm not afraid," said Jack quietly and all too manfully for the appalling and atypically fragile state that Phryne's heart was in.

Phryne hid herself behind a soft little laugh.

"Maybe you should be," she said. "Everything has been so wonderful for so long…so easy between us. It's been the most beautiful partnership. Would you really risk sacrificing that?"

"I've lost everything else," returned Jack.

Phryne nodded.

"Then let's keep this," she whispered, laying her hand over his. "For a little while longer, at least. For as long as we can."

Jack looked frustrated, and for a moment Phryne thought that he was going to protest. In the end, however, he just nodded curtly and settled for taking her hand in his and raising it, for the second time that day, to his lips. Phryne tried not to thrill at the gentle contact as his lips brushed the tips of her fingers, and she knew that it wasn't the few sips of wine that were making her suddenly and delightfully lightheaded. She'd never been particularly fond of that over-gallant gesture before, and now she found that as Jack released her fingers, she missed his touch far more than she'd expected to.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he laid her hand back down on the sofa, "about this morning….and about last night. I'm sorry I'm not the man I was."

"You're ten times any other man," she returned staunchly. "Perhaps even moreso now than you were before. Don't apologize anymore."

This time, Jack really did start to smile.

* * *

The next morning, it was Pierce Gaveston who came to greet Jack and Phryne at the desk when they entered the Gaveston hotel.

"Good morning, Miss Fisher…and Mr. Robinson!" Mr. Gaveston game them a little half-bow. "So glad to see you. Edith will be thrilled, of course. She's just gone to attend to an issue in room 214. Shall I take you up to Mr. Appleton's room?"

"Thank you, Mr. Gaveston." Jack nodded, all politeness and typically detached civility.

Phryne hid a smile.

Much to Phryne's relief, the hotel did turn out to have an elevator. As they rode up to the third floor together, she mused idly on the issue of accessibility, frowning to herself and wondering, especially in this progressive day and age where people all over the country were struggling with various different issues and injuries sustained in wars and workplaces, why it should even be in question whether any significant building or business had an elevator or other, easier means of reaching the upper floors.

"Here we are," announced Mr. Gaveston, throwing open the door to suite 346. "The now near-famed 'haunted suite 346,' which threatens to permanently stain my hotel's formerly sterling reputation. As we said yesterday, I don't think you're going to find anything here, but I'm happy that you're looking at least."

Phryne frowned.

The room, at least, didn't demonstrate any signs of a struggle, which may have been why the police had originally been so quick to rule the death a suicide.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," said Mr. Gaveston, smiling at Phryne. "Unless, of course, there's anything that you need from me?"

Phryne turned, gave him a bright smile in return, and then shook her head.

"No, thank you, Pierce," she told him. "We're already all sorted. See you at the bottom when we've solved your murder mystery."

With that she turned away, although not before she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Pierce Gaveston seemed to be looking just a little bit disappointed.

"Edith will be up a few minutes to check up on you, then," he said, stepping through the door. "Don't hesitate to come on down if you feel that there's any way I can help."

He lingered for a moment in the doorway and then finally removed himself. Phryne frowned, honestly a little disappointed herself, but when she turned back to Jack, she found him already on the other side of the room, examining a spot on the floor a few feet away from the edge of the bed. His face was twisted up into a pained sort of grimace, and as Phryne looked on in alarm, he swayed slightly in his chair.

"Jack?" She frowned.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "The elevator ride seems to have given me a little bit of...inopportune vertigo, that's all."

Phryne opened her mouth to respond, but Jack waved that impatiently away, gesturing at the carpet with this other hand.

"This," he told Phryne, "is right about where they found Appleton hanging. The chair he stood on is gone, of course; sent down days ago to the labs for fingerprint analysis."

"You said," replied Phryne, "if I remember correctly, that none of Mr. Appleton's prints were found on the chair."

"That's right," agreed Jack, nodding. "Neither, however, were anyone else's."

Phryne shrugged.

"Then obviously the murderer wore gloves," she said. "How are you so sure, Jack, that this is where the body hung?"

"I saw one of the original photographs," Jack explained, "when Hugh first brought it home from the scene. That may have been the last time he permitted me to be involved with the case." He snorted a dejected little laugh.

Phryne nodded slowly, gazing up at the ceiling right above the place on the carpet that Jack had indicated.

"Obviously,' she murmured, "whoever it was went through a great deal of trouble to make it look as though Mr. Appleton had killed himself…and if our murderer was all that meticulous, then there are a few dramatic touches that I'd expect to have found. If you're trying to convince a scrupulous police detective that a man's committed suicide, you'll need more than a just a chair and a rope. Nothing says "suicide," like a confession in the deceased's very own words, for example."

Jack raised an eyebrow, then nodded slowly.

"Yes," he agreed hesitantly. "Yes, I think…no I'm sure that they did find a suicide note, now that you bring it to mind. No doubt Anderson still has it."

"And I," murmured Phryne, "very much want to see it, Jack. You can learn an amazing amount from a suicide note…particularly one penned by a man who's still very much among the living."

"You're thinking of handwriting analysis," said Jack.

"Not only that," returned Phryne, "but also character analysis. No matter how skilled of an actor you may be, Jack, little pieces of your own personality will inevitably creep into your writing. Even your curt little penned refusals to attend my social functions have a certain, specific stoic charm to them."

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Phryne laughed. Coughing slightly, Jack apparently decided not to comment on that last remark.

"If we're going to see that note," he told her, "then we're going to have to actually cooperate with Collins. He's the only person who's even remotely likely to give us access….and that's only if he's feeling good-natured, even after finding out that we've been working on his case behind his back."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about Hugh," retorted Phryne. "He may be just a little put-out, it's true but we have a secret weapon that he can't possibly refuse."

Jack frowned.

"I'm not interested," he said seriously, "in manipulating my senior constable I think we've done more than enough of that already."

"You won't have to, Jack." Phryne smiled sweetly at him. "We'll let his wife take care of that for us, shall we?"

* * *

**Author's End Note:**

So…I finally finished my list of characters and double-casting options for the show. I'm trying as hard as I can to get my damn audition form sorted out, but my computer is having none of it, for some reason.

Anyway, the moral of this story is that I will be here all day. Feel free to shoot me a message if you're bored or having something to say about either the chapter or the tumblr post. If I get my work done in time (which unfortunately I doubt is likely), then I might just be able to write another chapter before the work week starts.

I promise to at least make valiant efforts in that direction.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**Author's Note:** So…let's be real with one another. This story has gotten LONG, and it's only going to get longer.

With that in mind, and with foreknowledge of the fact that the story is going, eventually, to span several months' worth of time, I've decided to retroactively return to the prologue, and to label it as "Part One."

We're getting closer to the end of "Part One," of this story, and we'll soon be moving into "Part Two."

…I have a weird mania for story organization and getting the labels right. We all have our little quirks. Forgive me. Let's move on.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty One**

A few hours later, Cec and Bert deposited Jack, alone, on the top step of the City South police station. He sat in his chair for a moment and watched to make sure they'd driven away before turning his attention to the station door and taking a deep breath.

It was the very first time he'd seen City South since his injury, now almost two months before, and he had a very good idea of what sort of a reception he'd get inside.

He wasn't disappointed, either. As he wheeled himself through the door and up to the on-duty constable's desk, he could feel the eyes of every person in the station fixed squarely on him.

"I-Inspector Robinson," mumbled Constable Harrison, staring at Jack with his mouth slightly open in shock "I…I didn't know…h-how are you feeling, sir?"

Doing his best to shut out the whispers and mutters that he could now hear coming from all sides, Jack cleared his throat.

"I'm quite all right , Constable," he muttered, nodding. "Thanks very much for asking. I was hoping to speak to Constable Hugh Collins, if he's available. I have some information that may be pertinent to an ongoing investigation of his."

"Hugh, sir?" Harrison frowned. "I mean, uh, yeah, Constable Collins just got back, but, um, if it's about the investigation, then perhaps you'd rather speak to Detective Anderson?"

"Collins will do nicely, thank you," said Jack. "I'm sure that we can trust him to pass any relevant information down the appropriate channels."

For a moment, Harrison looked as though he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Sir!" From behind Jack came the startled sound of Hugh's voice, and when Jack turned himself around, he found that Hugh had, apparently, just emerged from the restroom and was now staring at him with no less shock in his eyes than Harrison had exhibited. "What are you doing here? Does Doctor MacMillan know-?"

"Ah, Hugh," announced Jack, drowning out Hugh's protests. "Just the man I was hoping to see. Do you think you could spare a private moment?"

Hugh glanced sharply at Harrison, then nodded at Jack and pulled open the door of the nearby interrogation room.

"Of course," he muttered. "Um, right this way, sir, if you don't mind."

Jack followed Hugh into the room, keeping his eyes front and continuing to ignore the feeling of stares on his back until Hugh shut the door firmly behind them.

"Inspector," hissed Hugh. "Sir, you shouldn't be-!"

"I brought you something, Collins," announced Jack, reaching into his jacket pocket with some difficulty, considering his seated position, and pulling out the plastic bag which contained the very carefully folded square that Mr. Butler had made out of Arthur Dormer's bloodstained bedsheets. "We found these at your crime scene, and I've come to deliver them. You may wish to take a particularly close look at what appear to be bloodstains around the upper right-hand corner."

Hugh blinked.

"Dottie…did say that you had those," he mumbled.

"That's right," agreed Jack. "And now, you have them. I hope you make some good use of them. Miss Fisher and I suspect, albeit without more grounds than her intuition and a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, that the blood in question may be evidence of the removal of Mr. Dormer's finger. You'll want to find out."

Shaking his head slowly in obvious confusion, Hugh accepted the bag that Jack was offering him, and placed it gingerly on the desk.

"Th-thank you," he managed. "I'll…I'll do that. I think."

Jack nodded.

"And another thing," Jack began, frowning severely at Hugh and straightening himself up in his chair, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs that he was sure couldn't possibly really have been more acute than it had been the day before. "Miss Fisher tells me that you and Mrs. Collins have been dabbling lately in tampering with evidence."

"What?" Hugh's eyes went wide. "N-no, sir, I'd never! I mean…I only wanted to make sure that you and Miss Fisher weren't…well, that you weren't incriminated, sir, if you get my meaning. If you really think about it, then the hatpin would only have distracted Inspector Anderson from the real killer, anyway, and so-!"

"Your motives don't matter," muttered Jack sternly. "You'd never have pulled a stunt like that while we were working together, and I'm damned if you're going to start doing it now."

Hugh winced.

"Y-yessir," he muttered.

Jack nodded.

"But, sir," insisted Hugh, a little more quietly but more intensely than Jack had expected, "if the hatpin had gotten out, and if…well, if I tell Inspector Anderson where these sheets have come from, then everyone will know about your investigation, and I won't…"

He frowned, looking frustrated, and trailed off.

"Well, it wouldn't be good, sir, that's all," he finished lamely. "It just…there are plenty of reasons."

"Reasons," replied Jack, "like the petition you've begun to have me reinstated as an 'investigational consultant?'"

Hugh's jaw dropped.

"How do you…?" He swallowed hard, then shook his head. "Well, yes, sir, reasons like that. I mean, we really don't want to start upsetting anybody on the Melbourne force, sir. I hate to say it, but you've…well, you've made a few enemies over the years, what with your, uh particular attitude to police work, and it's taking me just a little longer than I'd originally expected. If we throw a wrench in the works now, then I'm honestly not sure-!"

"I've made enemies, Constable, because I'm uncompromising," interjected Jack quietly. "I'm not particularly popular here because, unlike Anderson and his cronies, I refuse to accept the easier ways out, the cushy solutions that aren't really good enough."

Hugh nodded.

"You're…well, you're a real detective, Inspector Robinson," he said. "You were the best there was. We…we really do need you back, sir. The things that I've seen since you've been gone; I can't even begin to describe it to you. We  _need_  you, and the rest of them will have to see it in time."

Jack shook his head.

"You don't need me," he said.

Hugh opened his mouth to object, but Jack didn't give him a chance.

"No," he insisted, "you don't need me, Collins. What you need is a honest man who takes his work seriously and isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty and taking a few hits for the sake of a job. I can think of one man in my acquaintance who perfectly fits that description."

For a moment, Hugh looked confused.

"That's right, sir," he began. "It's-!"

"You, Constable," said Jack quietly. "You're the man for the job. If anyone can clean up this messy excuse for a police department, then it's you. You're the honest man."

While Hugh fumbled for something to say in response to that, Jack reached around him and retrieved the bag of bedsheets.

"It's very important to me," he said seriously, "that you remain an honest man, Hugh. Now, I want you to take these down to Inspector Anderson, wherever he is, and have them properly analyzed. I'm afraid it's probably too late to correct the error with the hatpin, but it better not happen again. Do you understand me?"

"I…yes sir," mumbled Hugh. "I…I guess I do."

Jack nodded.

"You…you do understand what this means, though, don't you, sir?" Hugh was shaking his head again, gazing down at the bag of sheets. "There…well, there may be no chance now, of my getting you back into the force."

 _There probably wasn't any chance to begin with,_ thought Jack,  _and I doubt it would have lasted very long even if you had pulled it off. It couldn't have been any more than a temporary reprieve, at best._

"I know," said Jack. "I'll be fine. You just focus on turning Detective Anderson into more of an investigator and less of an abject embarrassment to City South. You might even try requesting a change of partner. Might I suggest Sergeant Carrington? I've always been impressed with the work he's done, although he lacks imagination. You could be a good addition to his team...and he to yours."

"But you're…you're not really leaving, sir, are you?" Suddenly, Hugh looked alarmed and very, very young; much younger than Jack had ever realized he was before, and it pulled on Jack's heartstrings through his already aching ribcage. "You will come back someday…won't you?"

"I'll be available," Jack assured Hugh, "whenever you'd like to call on me. You know perfectly well where to find me if anything comes up, Collins, although I doubt you'll end up needing me nearly as much as you seem to think you do."

"I wouldn't be so sure, sir," said Hugh simply, swallowing and straightening himself up, looking slightly pained. "And…of course, if there's anything you need from me, you, uh…well, you just have to ask, of course."

That, of course, would have been a perfectly poignant note to end the interview on, but Jack knew that he couldn't really let it go at that.

"As a matter of fact," he sighed uncomfortably, "there…very well might be something. Miss Fisher seems to have taken a particular interest in Mr. Arthur Dormer's suicide note."

"The note?" Hugh nodded. "Yes sir…I've always thought there might be something in that, although I confess, once Inspector Anderson got a hold of it, I'm not entirely sure where it ended up. Evidence files, I suppose."

"We'd like to see it," said Jack, "if you think that would be possible."

Hugh just nodded.

"I'll make sure it is, sir," he muttered. "Just…give me a little time."

He stopped, and as they'd both apparently run out of things to say, Jack nodded, shot Hugh his best attempt at an encouraging smile, and then wheeled himself around to face the door.

"Sir," began Hugh suddenly, and Jack glanced over his shoulder to find Hugh still standing there with his face screwed up into an unreadable expression.

"Yes, Collins?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

Hugh only helplessly shook his head. "Nothing, sir. I…no, it's nothing. Forget about it."

Jack waited, but it became apparent after a moment that Hugh really had decided that he didn't have a thing to say.

"Very well." Jack reached for the doorknob, and managed to get himself out through the interrogation room door without any assistance whatsoever, which pleased him, especially since he knew that there would probably be several people watching as soon as he made it out into the entrance hall again. "Good luck, Senior Constable Collins."

"Thank you, Inspector," whispered Hugh behind him.

Hugh didn't follow Jack out into the hall, and so Jack made his way out to the door without any further incident.

It was only when Jack had shut the front door behind him that he sighed and looked down at the three stairs which led down to the pavement, and which he had absolutely no way of navigating on his own.

He was sitting there, frowning at the steps and realizing that there was really no question of his calling any of the men inside for help, when Phryne Fisher unexpectedly appeared from around the corner, having apparently been waiting by the side of the station building.

"There you are, Jack," she said. "Did you have a nice visit with your old compatriots?"

Jack raised an eyebrow at her, and Phryne smiled wryly to show him that she knew exactly how 'nice' that experience had probably been.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

"I didn't," she returned simply. "It didn't seem fair to leave you to say your goodbyes all alone. I should probably have insisted that Cec and Bert stick around as well. As it is, although I'm willing to try it on my own, we're unfortunately likely to have you here in the doorway, blocking traffic entirely, until our chauffeurs come back to retrieve us."

Jack grimaced.

Phryne was just eyeing the wheels of Jack's chair, probably wondering how possible it might be for her to lift him without assistance, when the station door opened again to reveal Hugh, incriminatingly raw and red around the eyes.

"Allow me, Miss Fisher," he said, crossing to the right side of Jack's chair and getting a firm hold on the underside.

Phryne, in her turn, took to the left side, and with some frowns and grunts and surprised looks on both ends, they eventually managed to get Jack down off the steps and onto the concrete in front of the station.

"Phew," muttered Phryne. "Perhaps I'd better start working out in the mornings with Mac as well."

Jack glared at her, but she only laughed.

"Safe trip home, sir, Miss Fisher," called Hugh, already on his way back up the steps to the station door.

Jack watched him until he was back inside the building again, and then Phryne laid a hand on his arm.

"I believe," she said quietly, "that that is Cec and Bert just coming up the road. It would have been exquisitely perfect timing if they'd only been here a minute sooner."

Jack could indeed see the familiar cab making its noisy way through traffic towards them.

He and Phryne stood together in silence by the side of the road for a while, waiting until the cab pulled to a halt at the curb.

"Time to go, then," she said, as Cec opened the passenger door.

Jack just nodded.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** Oh wow, I actually managed to finish an entire episode/scene in a single chapter! Go me!

I don't suppose I could POSSIBLY get to three updates in one day?

No…no, that's definitely a bad idea and far too ambitious. Must remember to set myself reasonable goals…


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**Author's Note:** All right, all right, far be it from me to completely ignore your reasonable requests, my loves. I confess that I don't find this story particularly depressing, but I can see that I'm the only one, so let's have something a little more uplifting for a change, shall we? Perhaps romantic? Prepare for fluff…or as close to fluff as I ever get (which is…well, not as close as some.) For you, anything. :)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Two**

"Jack," asked Phryne as they rode back towards home in the cab, "I don't suppose you packed any of your fancy dress clothes when you prepared to come and stay?"

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"I believe I did, yes," he told her. "I've had enough experience with the adventurous day-to-day life of Phryne Fisher to know that one can never be sure exactly what to expect. I packed accordingly."

"Oh, good." Phryne beamed at him. "Then we won't have to stop back at your house. You'll need something just a little more high-class this evening, as I've got a surprise for you."

"I…don't know if I should be excited or concerned," muttered Jack. "Please don't tell me it's a party in my honor."

"No," retorted Phryne, "I thought I'd wait until you were up on your leg again to try and pull something like that. Tonight, it's something a little more…intimate that I have in mind for us."

Jack swallowed.

"I think," he said quietly, "that I either like the sound of that, or that I'm terrified."

"Can't it be both?" Phryne winked at him. "Don't worry. When I say intimate, I mean that it will be only you, me, and a few hundred other people."

"A few…hundred?" Jack blinked.

"Yes," replied Phryne. "But the intimacy comes from the fact that they won't be paying any attention to us. I imagine that we'll all be a bit more focused on the stage."

"All right," hazarded Jack, nodding. "Now I'm definitely interested."

Phryne smiled.

"I thought you might be," she murmured.

"Does this mean that you'll be wanting another ride, Miss Fisher?" Bert was frowning at her over his shoulder.

"It's not a problem, Miss," added Cec, "but you'll wanna jump to it. We got another job in an hour or so. Guess we could come back after, if that's easier for you."

"Actually," said Phryne, "I think it would be easier for everyone if we just turned straight around after getting ourselves dressed for the evening. That way you won't risk missing your other appointment, and we won't risk missing our show. That is…unless you'd like to join us, you two. If you'd care for an evening at the theater, then I'd be happy to cover the cost of the fare you'll lose in the meantime."

Cec and Bert glanced at each other, and then almost immediately shook their heads.

"Not us, Miss," muttered Bert. "Can't stand the stuff."

"Yeah," agreed Cec. "Bert always falls asleep in the seats. Much obliged for the offer, Miss, but I think we'll take a pass."

Phryne shrugged.

"Pity," she sighed. "Oh well, Jack, then I suppose it will be just you and me after all."

"…and a few hundred other people," Jack reminded her.

"True," agreed Phryne glibly, "but when we've done with the play, we'll be going back home together…where we'll have all the private time in the world, away from the prying eyes of other Shakespeare lovers."

"Shakespeare!" Jack raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me."

"Oh yes, Jack," agreed Phryne. "If you'll remember, you did make me a promise, of a kind, that you'd help me learn to appreciate one of my least favorite plays of all time. It just so happens that we're going to have an opportunity for the lesson even sooner than I'd originally supposed."

* * *

Some time later, cleaned up from the investigation and dressed up in their very best, Phryne and Jack sat side by side in the third row of the Premiere Playhouse mainstage, watching the final scene of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Juliet was in the process of weeping over Romeo's dead body as he lay on the ground, having killed himself with his own dagger.

"I will kiss thy lips," breathed Juliet, "Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die with a restorative."

She leaned in and kissed him, and Phryne shook her head and pursed her lips in disappointment.

"Even her grief feels unnatural and forced," she whispered. "It's not the actress either; it's the scene. This just isn't what grief is supposed to look like. True suffering, genuine sorrow isn't beautiful or noble; it's messy, tragic and terrifying; overwhelming in a way that simply doesn't lend itself to pretty speeches and perfectly contained tears. What's worse, Juliet's only a child, and those years and those loves are the most passionate and painful. Juliet's a fraud, Jack; she couldn't possibly really grieve like this. It's too perfect."

"Some women," murmured Jack, inclining his head deferentially to Phryne, "truly are beautiful and perfect in any situation."

"Oh don't be gallant," hissed Phryne. "I'm certainly not one of them, and anyway, I'm quite serious. It's a ridiculously unrealistic moment. Perhaps that's why it bothers me so much."

"I always thought," replied Jack, "that you reveled in this sort of unrealistic romance."

"I can't revel in this romance," muttered Phryne, "because I simply can't relate to it. It's nothing but melodramatic nonsense, all of it. They're so incredibly young and idiotic."

Jack only shook his head.

"I don't agree," he said quietly. "I'll admit that the actions taken here are a bit drastic, but I don't feel that it's totally ridiculous. The idea that Romeo and Juliet have found a love so powerful that it makes them rethink their old ideas of the world. It happens every day. There are novels, and poems, and sagas about it because it's such a widely shared human experience."

Phryne only frowned as she watched Juliet finally collapse over the dead body of her lover, just in time to die in front of Friar Lawrence, who chose that moment to come rushing frantically back in.

"It's seems such a waste," whispered Phryne, not for the first time.

"It does," agreed Jack, "but perhaps it was also inevitable. I don't consider myself to be a particular fanciful or dramatic man, Phryne, but I do believe that there is such a thing as a passion so powerful that it makes you reconsider all the choices you've made before; to reanalyze all the priorities that you once felt were so very, very important. Romeo and Juliet knew from the start what a terrible decision they were making, to fall in love and get married, and yet they found that they couldn't stop themselves. The pull of their desires was stronger than their full and logical knowledge that nothing good could possibly come of giving in to passion."

Phryne nodded slowly.

"They say," she whispered, "that it isn't really love if you can stop yourself from loving. It's not sincere if you can live without it, I suppose."

"They do say that," agreed Jack. "And I'm quite certain that you don't have to be young and foolish to experience something as powerful as that."

"The course of true love never did run smooth," murmured Phryne.

Jack turned and gave her a small smile.

"Very good, Miss Fisher," he said. "You're learning. Now, can you name the play?"

"No," retorted Phryne, "I can't, but I don't think I'd be averse to learning more about it…not this time. After all, it turns out that I was right. It is much more fun to see a play with a man who truly knows how to appreciate it."

Jack's smile broadened a little bit.

"Have I done what I was brought here to do, then?" He gestured at the stage. "Have I sufficiently enlightened you as to why you should be enjoying 'Romeo and Juliet?'"

Onstage, the prince was in the process of giving his final monologue. Several other people in the same row as Jack and Phryne had pulled out handkerchiefs and were sniffling and snuffling audibly into them, eliciting nasty looks from other, more dry-eyed theatergoers.

"I don't know," said Phryne thoughtfully, "but I really don't think it matters one way or the other. I find that I'm enjoying the play much more simply because…you're enjoying it. The literary theory you've been spouting at me all night has turned out to be just the icing on the cake."

 _And,_ thought Phryne, watching Jack's profile as he drank in the final, famous words of what was supposedly one of Shakespeare's greatest romances,  _I think for the first time, perhaps I am feeling just the slightest bit of connection to the characters in question, foolish and frivolous as they might still be. The star-crossed lovers…hopeless in the hands of fate._

The play finally came to a close, and as the actors collected onstage to take their bow, several members of the audience began getting to their feet.

Jack, too, rose to his feet, and as Phryne got up to join him, she found herself much more interested in the rapt look on his face than she'd been the whole evening in the play itself.

 _I, however,_ she reminded herself firmly,  _don't believe in fate. We create our own destinies…and we decide for ourselves what paths to take and what consequences to reckon with._

* * *

It was already after ten o'clock by the time Cec and Bert dropped Phryne and Jack off outside the Fisher residence.

"I've kept you out much later than I should have," murmured Phryne apologetically.

"Don't apologize," returned Jack, shaking his head. "I'm glad we had a chance to enjoy the bard together. Hopefully the next time you go to a performance of Shakespeare, you'll appreciate it just that little bit more."

"The next time I go to see anything by Shakespeare," Phryne informed me, "you're going with me, Jack, if for no other reason than that it's a treat to hear you muttering the lines along with the actors under your breath."

Jack looked startled.

"I don't do that," he assured her.

Phryne grinned.

"You certainly do," she retorted. "I thought the woman in the seat next to you was going to take your head off at one point during the third act. You were very much lost in your own little world…and if I listened just closely enough, I could hear you being the very best and most genuinely charming Romeo I'd ever had the privilege of listening to."

For a moment, Jack seemed at a bit of a loss, and Phryne was delighted to see that he was even blushing ever so slightly, although she couldn't be sure how much of that came from embarrassment, and how much from genuine pleasure at the compliment.

"I…" Jack swallowed hard. "My apologies. I had no idea…it was fully unconscious, I assure you."

"It was lovely," murmured Phryne. "I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for coming out with me tonight, Jack. I hope it wasn't too much of a strain on you."

Jack, who had been obviously trying to hide some significant discomfort all the way back in the cab, just shook his head.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Fisher," he said seriously, and Phryne knew that, pain or no pain, he meant every word of it.

"The pleasure," whispered Phryne, "was all mine."

Aware of that familiar, delicious tension in the air between them, Phryne lingered by the side of Jack's chair, knowing full well that it was late and long past time for both of them to get to bed if they were paying any attention whatsoever to the doctor's orders.

"Goodnight, goodnight," intoned Jack, gazing directly into Phryne's eyes and making her heart flutter the way it always did when he fixed he with that intensely passionate gaze of his. "Parting is such sweet sorrow…that I shall say goodnight 'till it be morrow."

He did have such a rich, remarkable voice; perfect, Phryne was sure, for the stage, that for a moment she didn't say anything, too caught up in how genuinely lovely the words sounded coming from his mouth, moving her in a way that they couldn't possibly have done as spoken by the young, albeit quite dashing actor who'd played Romeo that night on the stage.

 _The pull of their desire,_ she heard Jack explaining in the back of her head,  _was far stronger than their full and logical knowledge that nothing good could possibly come of giving in to passion._

"Jack," she whispered, and almost as though he'd read the thought in her mind, Jack reached for her. Either unable to stop herself or just far too unwilling to try, Phryne sank down onto his uninjured leg and let him take her carefully into his arms.

He kissed her hesitantly, just as carefully as he was holding her, but there was still somehow an intensity and a wonderful intimacy about the gentle way he drew her against his chest that it reminded Phryne of the magnificently serious longing that she sometimes saw in his eyes when she caught him watching her from across a room, even in the midst of an investigation.

When Phryne pulled away to catch her breath, Jack opened his eyes and they stared at each other for a long, breathless moment before Phryne got quickly to her feet again.

"The magic of the theater," she whispered by way of explanation or maybe of apology.

Jack only nodded wordlessly, his lips still slightly parted in something very much more exciting than surprise.

"Goodnight, Jack," said Phryne, aware that it was an anticlimactic way to go.

Jack, who had already said his goodnights, just nodded at her and watched as she swept past him through the front door.

Phryne didn't turn around to look back over her shoulder, although she heard the sounds of his wheels against the floorboards as he made his way down the hallway to his own borrowed bedroom.

Her mind was now full of the sounds of words she'd heard not too long ago; words she'd never appreciated quite as much until just that very moment.

 _Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs,_ she thought,  _being purged a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes…what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet._

Sighing happily to herself, Phryne made her way upstairs to bed, imagining all the while those words in her head as though Jack himself had spoken them aloud, for her alone.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** There now. Romantic fluff, and Shakespeare, too! I suppose that one was a long time in coming, since we began the story with Shakespeare in the first place. I am very pleased. See? I can write fluff. I can! 

All right, I'd better go and get some actual work done, now.


End file.
